Devil Takes Hindmost
by euphorbic
Summary: [Pre PotWK, mildly AU] Entreri and Jarlaxle are enticed by the challenge, and money, to be gained in hunting down a militant leader with unusually effective tactics. Betrayal and ulterior motives abound.
1. devil takes hindmost

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

_I feel compelled to make the following disclaimers:_

_First, I know practically nothing about D&D rules and little about the surface world, barring what I've read in a handful of the Drizzt books. I have researched a bit, but rpg-wise, it won't be flawless. Instead, it will be as realistic as I can make it._

_Second, I am changing some things for personal aesthetic preferences, because I prefer Entreri's image from earlier books, sans 5 o'clock shadow. For one, I lost the hat, because no man looks good with long hair in a ponytail while wearing a hat. _

_Third, this chapter has a lot of information in it. Too much, in fact. I tried to break it up a bit, but I'm an impatient writer and I didn't want to contrive filler to plant some of the plot points._

_And thanks to Ariel and Matt for FR info and criticism._

* * *

_devil takes hindmost_

It seemed to Entreri that Jarlaxle was up to something, which was a given where the wily drow was concerned, but the assassin hadn't managed to pry the information from him. The dark elf's gift of gab was a double-edged sword. On the one hand, he could make time fly with his witty repartee and sly twist of phrase. Entreri had not often been in the company of a skilled raconteur and found it was not always an annoyance. On the other hand, Jarlaxle sometimes did not appear capable of shutting up and Entreri was a man who preferred long, comfortable silences. The man had often considered stealing his companion's magical whistle in order to forcibly affect blessed silence on him.

In the absence of removing the whistle from Jarlaxle's overwhelming visual assault, the human had adopted the habit of simply ignoring the excess noise. The only problem with this method was the occasional useful tidbit was often completely lost. He'd once startled to the fact that Jarlaxle was prattling on, a knowing look on his face, about some interesting business prospects infamous Skullport. Just as he'd shown interest, the infuriating drow switched topics.

Loquaciousness aside, Entreri had not managed to trip Jarlaxle into a verbal slip. If the dark elf had an ulterior motive for putting them far far out of their way, he wasn't letting on. In truth, Entreri hardly cared; one direction was as good as any other until he managed to form a better plan for what remained of his life. Introspection wasn't his strong suit; he still had no real leadings or plan for the future, for all he was determined to enjoy himself more than he had hitherto done. It was something that took practice.

In their wanderings, Jarlaxle had led them to an area neither of them knew much about. It had been hard to get passage on a ship sailing across the Sea of Fallen Stars, especially with Jarlaxle skillfully evading every excuse to disguise himself.

They stepped off the boat in Iljak's port under a sweltering midday sun and into the region's soupy humidity. The heat wouldn't have bothered Entreri had it not been for the thick moisture saturating the air. It was not unlike breathing in thick smoke and it left him feeling a little out of breath. It also managed to make their traveling clothes stick to their bodies. Even Jarlaxle's jaunty plume sagged a bit.

The dark elf was not affected by the humidity as much as the sun and heat, but instantly complained of the sunlight's ability to elicit the gagging odor of rotting fish and seaweed from the area. It was not unlike other ports he'd had the pleasure to visit, but the smell was twice as potent and disagreeable.

The dock was as noisy as any other. Waves lapped against the ships, creating a background to the many layers of sound. The regular creaking of the great wooden ships as they rocked against their moorings joined the waves in counterpoint. The low roar of sailors, passengers, and beasts of burden, and the shouts of people recognizing old friends formed an upper level of audible texture. The piercing cries of the ravenously cheeky seagulls fighting against crotchety fish mongers, and the dimly heard tuneless notes of the whistles employed on many of the naval vessels formed a cacophonous and chaotic melody over everything else.

Visually, the dock swam with the same visions of color and activity to be expected the world over. The crush of the crowd was the expected byproduct of a busy port, and intimidating for most. For Entreri, it was an unwelcome reminder of how much he truly despised the unwashed masses. Unpresumptuous in height or dress, the compact frame of the assassin slipped through the crowds with ease and mobility, but with an added distaste for the stench that came with close quarters.

Conversely, the handsome dark elf's visual attack inspired horrified expressions from the dominant population of humans, while simultaneously astonishing them. It didn't take the two long to realize while the source of their horrified double takes was Jarlaxle's smooth ebony skin, but it was his hat that seemed to inspire the triple takes.

"Sweet Lolth," Jarlaxle chuckled, moving with the port's crowds, "why didn't we come here sooner? These people recognize brilliance when they see it, do they not?"

Uncomfortable with all the attention his partner was receiving despite the sheer amount of people pressing in from all sides, Entreri tried, and failed, to see over the crowd and beyond the hat's overwhelming visual block. There were times his unimposing height genuinely vexed him. He wasn't attempting to map the way out, the flow of the mostly human traffic communicated that clearly enough. He was looking for clues to why the monstrous hat was drawing stares.

"I doubt it is your deplorable fashion sense they're interested in." Failing to see anything of note, he tried, instead to listen for verbal cues. Most of what he picked up was unhelpful and along the sort of lines he could agree with. He heard little more than comments about the nerve of the black elf. Entreri sometimes wondered why he was not occasionally embarrassed to be around the drow's colorful display. The answer was easy enough; Jarlaxle was an eternal distraction for the assassin. Who would bother noticing Entreri when a target like Jarlaxle was walking nearby? It suited their needs perfectly.

Before anything else of note came to his ears, Jarlaxle was motioning the man over to the side of the thronged port with a circular wave of his hand. The assassin rolled his eyes at the glint of the midday sun refracting off his partner's vast collection of rings.

Jarlaxle had found the local board reserved for criminal postings, which was covered in multiplicities of wanted notices. They were not alone in perusing the board; a collection of men and women with varying degrees of obvious martial skill were looking at the postings themselves. The land in which they stood was well-known for exporting mainly mercenaries; the unlikely pair didn't doubt the group they stood among was locally produced.

At the heart of the board was a wooden notice that dominated the rest of the paper postings. The sign was doubly unusual as it lacked a long list of crimes underneath the weathered image of the wanted man. Instead, it read only: _Casteja Vektch, Bandit Captain. Wanted Alive, in Moderate Condition, with or without weapon. No Questions Asked_. The reward listed was easily in league with what either companion expected for their services before their current arrangement. The two paused; an air of speculative interest settled over them at the likely prospect.

"What do you think the moderate condition part means?" Jarlaxle's uncovered crimson eye did not leave the wooden notice as he asked. "Not dead? Perhaps we should tell the sign-poster of his redundancy."

"Considering the payoff," Entreri mused, "I'd say it means they don't mind damaged product. They expect it to be a difficult catch and they're allowing some leeway."

"Could we kill him for ease of transport and then animate him before delivery?" The dark elf's interest was obvious though all he aired were joking speculations.

"I don't know," Entreri drawled in return. "Can we? Do you have a trick that could do that?"

"Maybe," Jarlaxle grinned, tossing the assassin a wink that looked decidedly odd coming from his one eye. "A bandit captain warrants this kind of attention? Wood notices, woodblock print, promise of substantial reward for delivering damaged goods? It seems strange."

As a man with renown in a profession related to bounty hunting, Entreri's past experience helped him extrapolate the situation. "He may not be what the notices say. It seems more likely that he's causing problems that are making political waves. Perhaps he's involved with the fighting in the area."

Jarlaxle was already making many of the same assumptions. "Ah, the Menzoberranzan method suggests the oppressors use the word 'bandit' while said bandit uses the term 'freedom fighter.' He might be an honorable man, fighting for worthwhile reasons."

"The gold is good," Entreri deadpanned.

The mercenary nodded, causing the great plume on his huge hat to bob in agreement. "True. In fact, I would go so far as to say the gold is _very_ good. Well! Let's seize the black-hearted villain and see justice served!"

The human blew a snort, used to his companion's flair for the dramatic. "It shouldn't be hard to get information on him with a reward that high. I think we'll have to worry about other bounty hunters snatching him before us."

As a plotter tempered in the hellfire of Menzoberranzan, city of the most creative and cutthroat plotters in the world, Jarlaxle simply smiled. "We'll just have to out-think them, won't we? Or use another group to clear the way. But first, let's question the locals."

Before Entreri could begin to protest, Jarlaxle had turned away to one of the hardened mercenaries looking at a different notice. "I say, dear man," the drow began in the most agreeable of tones, "who is this Captain Vektch?"

Entreri was gratified to see the man turn to Jarlaxle with little more than a narrowing of his dark eyes and a snort at the sight of the dark elf's hat. "Vektch? I thought you were from Sespech, but you must come from a very far off hole instead."

Jarlaxle answered immediately with a friendly nod, appearing to take no offense at the implied insult. "Not just far, but deep, good sir. I pray you might enlighten my compatriot and I as to this Vektch fellow."

At Jarlaxle's mention, the hard-bitten man moved his head slightly to take in Entreri for the first time, but without letting the foppish dark elf out of his sight. An amount of respect, previously lacking, entered the man's demeanor as he took the assassin's measure. "For the last five years he's been leading an uprising against Eles Wianar, called the Shining Lord of Chondath by some. If you're thinking of bagging him, I'd think about easier game. Not only is he a slippery bastard, he's well-liked by many of the people, and the only person, live or dead, I've ever heard of with the gall to win a war by losing."

Only stone drunk, from a hundred paces, and through a thick fog, would it be possible to miss the sudden gleam of intense interest on Jarlaxle's dark face. Entreri instantly knew their next adventure was a forgone conclusion. Professional interest began to characterize the way he processed information on the bounty.

"Win by losing?" Jarlaxle echoed, looking back at the ominous looking depiction of the man on the board.

"I heard this was a land sapped by conflict and dangerously vulnerable to further break up," Entreri quickly cut in. "Why would people support this military action against what little stability they have?"

The seasoned mercenary, for he could be nothing else, shook his head slightly. Jarlaxle noted with amusement the two humans appeared to be roughly the same age. The local man had been somewhat terse with Jarlaxle, but he seemed genuinely respectful of Entreri.

"Chondath is an aggressive land," he said, as if that explained everything. "From what I've heard of Casteja Vektch, he's a charismatic leader with a knack for creating public support. Six or seven years ago, he came into Iljak's farming communities and started helping people rebuild from the war, protect against the stray monsters wandering out of Chondalwood, and generally making himself useful where Wianar wasn't. He was talking about the corruption in Arrabar even then. So he had plenty of sympathetic ears."

The information was forming a loose framework in Entreri's mind as he listened. As an assassin, he knew less about building the sort of coalitions and structures needed in order to wage a war on a large scale. He usually simply played the part of the secret weapon inside the larger scope of vast conflicts. It was his association with Jarlaxle and brief stint as a pasha of Calimport's most notorious thieves guild that helped him put the picture together. He was unconcerned about his lack of education in the matter; he trusted Jarlaxle, master of intrigue, to nail down the salient details.

"Sympathetic ears are only helpful," Entreri commented, "if there are hundreds of them and they are no longer attached to orcs. He would need funding and something to gain to start what must be an unpopular uprising."

The mercenary nodded his agreement. "Just so. As far as I know, he ain't a local. Rumor has it he's on Sembia or Sespech's payroll, but any country wanting to sink hooks into another piece of Chondath could fund him. Though, he was branded a bandit easily enough for robbing Arrabar caravans earlier on. That might be his funding."

"And what he has to gain, if he wins," Jarlaxle chuckled, reinserting himself into the informative conversation, "is the possibility of a more united Chondath, with him at the reins, or at least whoever may support his action. And he enjoys popular support because he appears a better option than Lord Wianar. Smart man."

A single nod communicated the mercenary's agreement.

"His main thrust is that Wianar is corrupt and uninterested in supporting the people," Entreri mused thoughtfully. It seemed such a simple plan, it was a wonder the government in Arrabar hadn't made headway against Vektch. Another look at the sign revealed even more information to the assassin's keen mind.

It wasn't made of wood because it came with Arrabar's seal or a promise of Wianar's money; it was wood to last the seasons. By the weathering it had sustained, the sign had been up for a handful of years. All the other notices it flanking it had edges that overlapping it.

As he studied the sign, something else bothered him. One step ahead of him, Jarlaxle already had playfully seized their helpful mercenary's wrist in two hands and was pumping it up and down, thanking him with much enthusiasm.

"Good sir, you have been of the utmost help to two weary travelers! Please allow us just one more question before we part ways, always to look back on this moment with warm hearts. What sort of weapon does the posting refer to?"

The man jerked his wrist out of Jarkaxle's grasp, though his stalwart face betrayed a minimum of irritation. "It is said when he carries the sword it remains chained to his wrist. Strange looking thing by all accounts."

Entreri nodded his thanks to the man, sensing the mercenary would not be offended by more or less than that. Understanding the unspoken signal to the end of the conversation, the other human returned the nod, ignored Jarlaxle completely, and continued his searching through all the notices on the board. The assassin stood a few moments observing the bustling crowd and the apparent lack of interest in the bandit captain's notice, before turning to his gaudy companion.

The dark elf was staring at the posting in question as if his one-eyed gaze would force the wanted man right out of the old ink. His face was arranged in a thoughtful look that confirmed there was more to the situation than he was letting on. "For a human, he's quite handsome, isn't he?"

An expression of near incredulity passed across the assassin's face at the question. It faded faster than it arrived; Jarlaxle was an expert at bizarre commentary. It was a ploy he used to throw both his friends and enemies off in order to glean every bit of information he could at the cheapest possible price.

"Your type?" Entreri smirked; he was growing used to turning the drow's odd comments and queries back on him.

The verbal riposte did not ruffle Jarlaxle in the least. He turned a philosophical smile with a wicked twist on his human companion. "Yes and no, but that has nothing to do with his looks. I wonder, if I was a wanted male, would my poster reflect my best features?"

The answer was hardly one Entreri cared to dissect or entertain, let alone picture in his mind's eye. Instead he grasped a handful of the drow's colorful cape and tugged him along to find lodging and information that would dictate the sort of supplies they would need. "I somehow doubt his looks have anything to do with anything. The sooner you tell me what you're up to, the happier I will be."

Finding secret amusement in Entreri's words, Jarlaxle chuckled and allowed himself to be towed. "Do you really think so? Why do you always think I have some ulterior motive to everything I do? Sometimes, Master Entreri, an adventure is simply that; an adventure."

Without missing stride, the assassin shook his grim head. "Truly, I would like to believe that, because I can already see this hunt is going to be complicated enough."

They found lodging near the edge of town, for most of the inns near the port were either full or unaccommodating to dark elves, Drizzt Do'Urden or not. Neither of them minded overmuch; the farther they were from the dock and its noise and noxious vapors the better. Many innkeepers were more irritated with Jarlaxle's hat for reasons the two could not guess. It was at their final stop they discovered the problem was not so much the hat, but the color of the outrageous diatryma feather. Purple feathers were a sign of loyalty to former Chondath controlled Sespech.

The surprising information brought a smirk to Entreri's face; he hoped Jarlaxle would be forced to remove one of his many terrible eyesores from sight. Unfortunately, the exasperating drow simply plucked out the feather and blew lightly on it until it slowly achieved a rich red hue that better suited the wide brimmed monstrosity.

With a spartanly appointed room rented, which Entreri inspected for trouble with a perfectionist's eye, the two split up to collect information on their mark. At the end of the day they reconvened at their second-rate inn's smoky main room to discuss what they'd learned.

"These people are brilliant," Jarlaxle said delightedly, pouring another shot of alcohol into the steaming black brew before him. "Too bad your countrymen in Calimshan threw in perfume instead. That was vile stuff, my friend."

"You're insulting the alcohol by putting it in that rot," Entreri replied, looking over a map of the road ahead. He'd found the only reason he'd resumed drinking the foul coffee was for the warmth it had instantly conveyed through his body. The region was hot, but the springtime nights were still a bit cold and the high level of humidity only helped sink the chill into one's bones.

"On the contrary," the dark elf grinned, patting the warm mug good-naturedly, "it is much nicer than Calimshan coffee, even without the alcohol. No nasty little dregs for your allies and prospects to laugh at when they see them in your teeth."

Entreri smirked in what could only be interpreted as mockery. "If you don't know how to drink Calishite coffee properly, you can't be considered a credible judge."

Enjoying the argument more than the hot drink, Jarlaxle happily rejoined, "It isn't the method, Artemis, it is the result. This tastes better, therefore, it _is_better."

The map rolled up as soon as the assassin put it down on the table. He fixed the exasperating dark elf with a level stare that conveyed volumes of sheer negative energy. "You are distracting me over this swill?"

The dark elf would never have guessed his sober companion to be a connoisseur of the dark brew, or patriotic for that matter. Over the last thousand miles he rarely managed to get Entreri interested in such petty arguments; the previous one had been about Calishite horses. His glee knew practically no bounds. As an added goad, the insufferable drow downed a good deal of the brew. "Swill you say?"

The dark-eyed man took the map up again, unrolling it in a smooth, one-handed move. "Swill."

"But Entreri," the infuriating mercenary said, feigning innocent confusion as he leaned over the bare few inches necessary to cast his ostentatious hat's shadow over the part of the map his companion was trying to commit to memory, "don't you see the flaw in your reasoning?"

An iron gaze shot up from the map and straight into Jarlaxle's uncovered and flawlessly red eye. "This can only end in sadness, Jarlaxle."

The dark elf went on, still feigning confusion. "I've never actually seen you drink Calishite coffee, but here you are drinking the so-called local swill. What sort of conclusion am I to make?"

"If we were to strain horse manure through pillow sheets and throw in honey and alcohol," the assassin replied, glancing down again at his map, "you'd probably like that, too."

"No," Jarlaxle said with as serious an air of consideration he could maintain without breaking out into full laughter, "I don't think I would. Though I guess it would depend on if it came from a Calishite horse or not."

Entreri knew from the start he'd been baited, but had defended his native coffee without thinking thanks to Jarlaxle's uncommon ability to both put him at ease and rile him unnecessarily. With the mention of their last ridiculous argument, the human fighter reminded himself that his companion was being contrary for sport. "I'll be happy to witness the taste test."

Chuckling to himself, Jarlaxle sat back in his chair, content to study the assassin's face as he continued with the map. "You won't help me strain the manure?" He asked in a placid voice that couldn't conceal the merry glint in his unnerving red eye.

Unbidden, another smirk pulled at the corner of the assassin's mouth. "No, but I will provide the pillow sheets."

"Floral prints, I hope, with elven tatting?" The gleeful tone of the gaudy dark elf's voice almost proved beyond Entreri's bearing, but he refused allow the elf anything more than a wicked smile.

"Nothing less for Calishite horses."

"Nothing more for Jarlaxle?"

"Nothing more than an oilskin map down your throat and a pair of daggers in your eyes."

Jarlaxle sat back laughing at the threat. Baiting Entreri was rarely an easy task, but when done successfully, the dark elf took great delight in the occasion. Seeing the man's gray eyes still scanning the map, Jarlaxle shook his head merrily.

"Don't we need the map?" His tone was all the innocence his black-skinned face could not pretend at.

With the conversation turning toward a topic Entreri was more interested in, the assassin brushed the silly argument away. "Not if we commit it to memory." He placed the map on the table, smoothing it out and holding down opposing edges with his mug and a plate from Jarlaxle's dinner.

The staff in every establishment they found themselves in always seemed to wait until the two departed before collecting anything the pair used. Entreri found it annoying as he hated any kind of clutter. Jarlaxle merely found it amusing, often ordering small item on small item, to see what kind of a heap they could collect before the servers overcame their fear and tried to clear the table. On particularly dull nights, he was given to constructing precarious dining ware sculptures, balanced on an eggcup when available.

A hint of interest on his handsome features, Jarlaxle leaned over to look at the map Entreri had picked up while the two were apart. "Hmm, it looks very brown. And very green, too."

"It is generally accepted that Vektch's forces have strongholds within Chondalwood and secretly among the farming communities between the Arran River and Iljak, mostly near the Old Road, just south of the wood." Entreri tapped a finger on the map reflexively, rather than in any gesture to help guide the dark elf's gaze. "I think we should head in that direction and look for an Arrabar army to observe.

"Wianar's general, a woman rumored to be from Ixinos, replaced his last general who was executed thanks to his inability to bring Vektch in. She often leads troops into battle against Vektch and he, true to form, retreats before her. At night, when her people are settled in, our bandit captain assaults them and keeps them from rest only to retreat when forces are mobilized. Can you guess what happens next?"

A grin of evil admiration was slowly encompassing Jarlaxle's features. "Her forces settle down again and he attacks again. She gets no sleep and he rotates his marauders endlessly. I bet she'd like to peel his face off with her nails. What are the casualties like in this kind of warfare?"

Entreri snorted softly, impressed despite his usual grim demeanor. "We can only guess. Wianar and his general aren't going to publish that kind of information. According to Wianar, Vektch's group has lost over half their number and will soon be defeated. That as opposed to the first year of conflict where he claimed to have wiped almost all of them out. I think it is more than just a war of attrition."

Jarlaxle's chair creaked as the dark elf leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head and bringing his boots up to drop heavily, and noisily, onto the table. "I am willing to bet the Shining Lord of Chondath has lost a disproportionate number of warriors when compared to our bandit captain. In order to guess at his mindset, what else did you learn of his tactics and background?"

There was a pronounced pause as Entreri considered Jarlaxle's question. His eyes narrowed in suspicious slits of annoyance. Was this another one of those times where he worked at furthering their aims only to find Jarlaxle wasn't keeping up his end of the partnership? "Why don't you tell me what you learned about this little jaunt, first?"

Fine white eyebrows arched in response to Entreri's accusing tone. "Age before beauty, my good friend."

An unintentional look of disgust made a brief appearance on Entreri's normally inexpressive face. "Did you even bother to look into this bandit at all?"

"Not exactly," Jarlaxle replied with a shameless smile.

In response, Entreri nearly knocked the infuriating drow's boots off the table to the floor. Instead, he exerted a modicum of self control and dipped his head menacingly until his cold eyes stared through long locks of his black hair. "What _did_ you do after we parted ways today?"

Seeing his game was beginning to go too far, Jarlaxle raised his hands before him and gestured for his deadly friend to calm down. "Don't worry, I didn't spend the time idly. I've made some important arrangements that may or may not work out to our satisfaction. I also made an appointment to talk to somebody about our situation. What I get out of that appointment depends on what you learned of Casteja Vektch."

Somewhat placated, but still suspicious, Entreri began again. "I think Vektch has come up with a form of warfare that might be effective against organized warfare. It is as the man said on the docks today; Vektch's forces continually lose strongholds, land, and strategic positions. In terms of normal military warfare, he has not won a single battle, but in terms of casualties, he's lost the least. Also, Wianar has yet to stop him."

Leaning back precariously on the back two legs of his chair, Jarlaxle rocked back and forth a moment, relying on his legs to anchor him safely to the table. Failing that, levitation. "He's a thinker, probably brilliant. Wins by losing. Helps the common people in order to buy them off emotionally and morally. Charismatic. Handsome. At worst, he's a born politician and at best, a lost relation. Why, I'm tempted to paint him black and kidnap him!"

"Why don't we skip the paint part," Entreri suggested with little enthusiasm.

"If you insist," the dark elf chuckled before turning more serious. "Ah, by the way, did you notice how little interest there was in the posting at the docks?"

The assassin nodded, glad his comrade had brought up the point. "Yes, I marked it as strange, too. Nobody believes they can take the man in alive. I think it has something to do with his sword."

The chair dropped forward to all four feet as Jarlaxle swung his boots off the table and leaned forward. His uncovered eye gleamed in interest only magic items could inspire. "Will you be parting with your magnificent skeleton sword?"

"No." His answer was immediate and resolute, telling Jarlaxle that he would be a fool to want the blade, either. "The sword has a large, orange gemstone ranging from blade to hilt over the crosspiece, which is said to allow Vektch to read minds and shield his own. The blade, by all accounts, is sentient. It is widely believed that the chain cannot be cut and that the man would kill himself with it rather than be taken in alive. The notice states he is wanted alive and nobody thinks that is remotely possible."

A dramatic sigh seemed to deflate the acquisitive dark elf; a psionic item with a will of its own sounded drearily familiar. "I see. Well, that is very good information. I wonder what kind of personality the sword has? If it has the gift of silent magic, will you be able to defend against it?"

The assassin's gray-clad shoulders shrugged gracefully. His menacing sword and gauntlet combination had become a part of him, though he never took either for granted. He was still learning about Charon's Claw, but the gauntlet seemed straightforward enough. "You should know the gauntlet can't keep it from reading my mind."

Jarlaxle nodded sagely, dismissing any traces of trepidation the ghost of Crenshinibon inspired. He stared at the map on the table without focusing on it, mind full of motion. At length, he nodded a second time and slowly straightened to stand in front of his chair. The dark elf stretched languidly, showing more of his taut stomach than Entreri wanted to see. Looking suitably unhurried, he picked up his mug of coffee again.

"I'll see what I can do about the mind reading. For now, I think a walk in the cool night air with the stars overhead will help me think."

Entreri, of course, didn't believe the cunning drow's excuse for a second. "I see. Tell your friend hello for me."

Jarlaxle paused mid-stride and grinned back at the assassin. "Yes, I must do that. And while I'm out, please get some beauty sleep, Artemis. Recall that I have to look at that scruffy face of yours every day."

Entreri watched the flamboyant dark elf turn and leave, his collection of jewelry chiming and boots making audible impacts on the hardwood flooring. Despite the use of his given name, the assassin did not immediately think of slipping his deadly dagger between any of Jarlaxle's vertebrae. He would never admit it, but Jarlaxle's uncanny ability to enjoy himself in almost any situation was a model he was trying to decipher.


	2. the plot sickens

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer.

_A/N: I promise the next chapter will be better. This one is taking longer, thanks to my difficulty working with more than one character at a time. _

_Since my FR fics are getting some reviews, I've decided the best place to answer them is in the review screen, since I don't want to distract from the story. I thought about answering them on my profile page, but I already use that for updates. My only problem is that it makes it look like I have more reviews than I have and that feels slightly dishonest._

* * *

_A man feared that he might find an assassin;  
Another that he might find a victim.  
One was more wise than the other.  
-_Stephen Crane

_the plot sickens_

As far as the unlikely partners were concerned, the night passed uneventfully. Entreri wasn't inclined to question Jarlaxle when he returned, preferring instead to continue to map out the most likely route to the region that saw the most militant action. For his part, Jarlaxle was more quiet than usual which came as a mixed blessing. Entreri had no trouble nodding off with the dark elf silently pondering his mysterious calculations; even if it was a worrisome sign, he was happy enough for the lack of noise.

A light sleeper despite his years, the assassin had no trouble rousing hours later when he heard Jarlaxle's jewelry chiming as he moved around the small room. Entreri had long since learned the noise was the dark elf's unspoken wake up call. Like his hard-soled boots, the jewelry was as silent or noisy as he desired. Over the many miles, both of them had developed somewhat considerate habits toward one another which they never admitted, much less commented on.

The two continued in silence, quickly stowing what little gear they brought with them. Jarlaxle's equipment was considerably less noticeable, thanks to his array of handy magical items. He made up for the fact with his usual visual display. Entreri's rucksack was deceptive only in that the man was ruthlessly efficient and sparing in what he considered a traveling need.

The sun was barely spreading a flush of pink across the cloud-dotted sky when they hit Iljak's streets. Heavy dew smothered the scents of the city, prompting a sigh of relief from Jarlaxle. The excitement of any city pleased his jaded tastes, but the scents often left much to be desired. He observed the city's morning traffic, taking what pleasure he could in watching the brisk business before they moved beyond the city walls.

It wasn't until the two had left their unremarkable inn far behind that any conversation began. Content to let silence reign as long as possible, Entreri was comfortable walking the city streets in the uncommunicative state. He knew Jarlaxle well enough to know it wouldn't last all morning.

"Are we going to get horses?"

Entreri nodded absently, expecting the inquiry. "I already hired them and put down the deposit. You'll pay the other fees."

"That hardly seems fair," Jarlaxle commented dryly. "I lose money and you get yours back later? Who paid for our lodgings?"

The assassin shrugged, showing absolutely no remorse. "If I have to do most of the work, you'll have to spend most of the money."

"You think I didn't do as much as you, my friend?" Jarlaxle shook his head, but didn't take offense. "I've arranged for some help on this adventure and I verified the area our bandit captain will be working in this week. Doesn't that rate?"

Entreri would have been surprised, if he wasn't used to his companion's amazing ability to turn up information and ingenious plans of action at a moment's notice. Instead he nodded casually. "It rates, but fails to inspire my generosity."

The dark elf snorted, but did not respond to the assassin's negativism. In his mind Entreri was still getting the short end of the deal; wealth and comfort were high on his list of priorities and he was uniquely gifted at coming into both. As long Jarlaxle remained amused, he would continue to let Entreri think he was getting one over on him.

The horses Entreri had selected were fine animals, but that didn't stop Jarlaxle from trying to haggle over the fees. The woman holding the horses for them refused to budge an inch on the price. She stood stoically with the proud beasts, staring at Jarlaxle with disinterest as he tried repeatedly to deflate the fees with slight of tongue, claims of dissatisfaction with the animals, and masterful flirtation.

Throughout the whole affair the horse merchant merely stood, answering many of Jarlaxle's claims with logic and his charm with a long-suffering attitude. In the end, the price stood and the dark elf paid it without complaint, though he did advise the young lady to smile a little. She ignored his advice and took his money, never deviating from the same attitude she'd shown the whole time.

"This town is a sad place," he remarked further down the road. "I've not felt like the city guard would be after me any second for my race, but the blank stares I see after the initial looks of shock are getting dull."

"Everyone here hides their emotions," Entreri replied. "A sensible enough society."

A smug grin spread across Jarlaxle's face at the words. "Spoken like a truly cold-hearted man. What happened to your prospects of joining a paladin's holy order?"

Entreri shot the dark elf a poisonous look. "Keep up the judgmental diatribe and I'll personally deliver _you_ to a paladin's holy order."

Jarlaxle chuckled in response. "Point taken, my friend."

Despite Jarlaxle's confirmation of where their quarry would be that week, Entreri inquired about Vektch on their way out of the city gates. The plentiful soldiers manning the gate were helpful, but they didn't relent casting watchful looks over the drow. They reported sightings of the wanted man in the southern reaches of Chondalwood, but advised he didn't always stay with the same group of bandits. One of the soldiers even produced a few papers he described as the man's printed lies. He gave them to Entreri, wishing him luck in capturing the bandit.

The vast fields outside the city were heavy laden with morning dew. An ocean of green stalks bowed under the weight of the moisture and shone brightly, refracting the sun's rays until they gleamed golden-green. As it evaporated, the dew enhanced the earthy smell of good soil and fragrant greenery. The scent was much more to Jarlaxle's taste and even Entreri managed to note the pleasant morning ambience.

In the early morning chill, crickets droned rhythmically, dragonflies buzzed, and ground fowl called out to one another. Overhead, patches of windswept clouds scudded along beneath a washed out sky. It was easy to forget the bustling port wasn't far distant. The only reminder came if they looked over their shoulders or when a breeze brought the smell of salt water to mingle with the scent of the earth.

As they rode toward Shamph, the large city at the crossroad of the Emerald Way and the Old Road, Entreri read one of the notices over and handed Jarlaxle another to peruse. He wasn't surprised at the straightforward message or the ease in which the author made his points. The character of the propaganda was concise and logical, even when detailing instances that described the governor of Iljak as Arrabar's stooge. No wonder the city guard had proved so helpful. Each handbill was an interesting new piece to an over-arching picture that he felt he was only beginning to see.

"He's published handbill after handbill detailing evidence of Wianar's corruption and continuous self-serving behavior," the assassin remarked. "He's literate, at least."

"And articulate," Jarlaxle mused, eyes quickly scanning the page Entreri had handed him. "I need to add this to his list of dubious admirable traits. I knew he was a thinker, but a propagandist as well? Perhaps we shouldn't take him in, rather, let's join his cause!"

Entreri sucked in a deep breath of earthy morning air and released it in a long-suffering sigh. The last time they had joined a gaggle of bandits had left a bad taste in his mouth and Jarlaxle on a high horse. "Revolutionists don't pay as well as the governments they try to overthrow."

"That's right," the dark elf smirked, "we're doing it for money this time. I'd prefer to do it for fun, but profit is nice, too."

The latter comment drew a sidelong glance from Entreri. He was certain Jarlaxle was already enjoying the situation; it was a bizarre ability. As they rode, he continued to read his handbill but another part of his mind was devoted to the situation. Was a morning ride prefacing a journey into militant infested country really enjoyable? Or was it anticipation of the challenge to come?

His train of thought was interrupted when he read another claim from his second page. "Does yours mention the Shining Idiot of Arrabar allowing the Red Wizards an enclave?" The assassin stared at his handbill, contemplating the possibility of falsehood. "That must have doubled Casteja's sympathizers overnight."

"No." Jarlaxle raised a finger at the pronouncement of the wizards. "Wait, do you mean those mad slavers from Thay? That _is_ ill-advised. Most of the dour ho-hum people around here stare terribly at signs of magic."

Entreri didn't bother asking how the ostentatious drow managed to figure out the last bit; one less tale of moronic exploits suited the assassin well. "The same. This sheet accuses Wianar of being a Red Wizard flunky. That might be possible, but as Vektch has yet to man a full scale assault on Arrabar, Wianar can afford to make unpopular decisions."

"Wianar obviously wants the Wizards' magic on his side as added security. That means he doesn't think our bandit is really so far from assaulting Arrabar," the surprising drow responded.

"It depends on how you look at the timeline. I believe Vektch had this all in mind when he showed up on the scene seven years ago. Humans are so obsessed with time; they always want things done as soon as possible, especially human politicians. I think Casteja has transcended this basic human shortcoming."

Entreri gifted Jarlaxle with a quizzical look. He was far from offended by the drow's blanket criticism of the human race; patience was hardly an exclusive trait, but most of humanity had little in stock. It was Jarlaxle's sudden use of the bandit's given name that seemed odd. He wondered if this was the answer to his sense that Jarlaxle had an ulterior motive in bringing them to Chondath. Did they come in order to meet some old friend? If so, why the secrecy and games?

Finding he didn't really care one way or the other, Entreri did not grow alarmed or irritated. The situation was undeniably novel and satisfyingly challenging. If the man was known to Jarlaxle, the question wasn't whether or not they would really be capturing him, but whether they would be turning him in.

"Wianar and his general probably want him alive for information," the assassin commented, watching his partner surreptitiously. "If Vektch is really so patient, he might find himself enduring years of torture while they try to coax his tongue."

To the assassin's surprise, Jarlaxle chuckled in response. "I dare say he will! Especially after all the trouble he's caused. The man's in for more than his share of hardship and suffering. It is unfortunate for him that our desire for coin is stronger than our sympathy."

Without an answer, but again not worrying about it, Entreri shrugged his suspicions off. He would continue to work at the edges of the issue, doing his best not to alert the sly dark elf to his interest. Getting to the most conflicted region they had heard their quarry was located was their current goal and what Entreri concerned himself with. He kept them on the road from Iljak with plans to shadow a Chondath army in order to see the so-called bandits at work.

The quickest route was through Chondalwood by the Old Road. Neither of them was enthusiastic about venturing into the monster infested area. It was hardly suitable for Arrabar or Iljak's armies to travel by, even if the local druids or other creatures were disposed to let something like that happen. It was far better for an army to march outside and away from a forest's natural cover. However, Entreri was certain it would take little time to locate an army once they cleared the wood: armies weren't easily hidden.

The heat and humidity of Chondath's late spring was hard on both partners, more so the dark elf. Temperatures had risen with the sun, evaporating the rest of the dew and filled the air with heat and high humidity. Jarlaxle found himself unaccountably relieved his wide brimmed hat shaded his head and much of his shoulders from the sunlight. It was his tight-fitting clothing that seemed more of a bother. He'd been in humid areas of the Underdark, of course, but that experience did not compare with the exacerbation of the sun's rays. He scowled at the fine perspiration on his dark arms.

As the day heated up, Entreri casually shed layers of clothing from his upper body. The heat still had little affect on him, but the humidity stuck to his skin and glued his clothing, suited for a cool Northern spring, to his flesh. By late afternoon, he was down to a loose sleeveless tunic with his cloak bundled neatly on the back of the saddle blanket and his leather shirt draped across his thighs. He was more concerned about Jarlaxle and the way his black skin absorbed the sun's heat than he was about his own Calishite hide. Not because he cared, he told himself, but because he didn't want the drow to slow them down by succumbing to something like sun stroke or heat exhaustion like some foolish tourist in his native Calimshan.

Eventually he wordlessly tossed the drow a sand colored Calishite shirt he'd taken for the desert escape out of Calimshan many long months ago. Jarlaxle caught the loose shirt with a look of pained disgust, but dropped his hat on the saddle horn long enough to pull the garment over his torso. Not so different in size or build, the shirt fit the male quite well, but his expression made it clear he wasn't happy with such a drab solution; even if it was meant to save his arms and the expanse of bare skin beneath his vest from burning.

The many people they passed making their way to Iljak seemed to stare far less at Jarlaxle after he donned the sensible garment. This was a source of relief to Entreri, who felt he'd achieved a small victory against his partner's overstated war on eyesight. He knew the drow would shed the shirt as soon as they reached the city.

The horses were used to the weather conditions and made excellent time on the road toward Shamph. They made the large city by early evening and were again lodged by nightfall. Jarlaxle's presence continued to be met with stony silence, but it was preferable to the outright aggressive displays they met in other lands. Good gold went a long way to securing hospitality, though news of their quarry was of a different character outside Iljak.

Their inn keeper was tight-lipped on the subject even though Jarlaxle tipped extravagantly when paying for their evening meal. It took sharing a bottle of wine with the man's daughter and more of Jarlaxle's mellifluous charm before they began to hear a new side to the uprising.

According to the young woman, who was either not as skilled at concealing her curiosity as her father or cared less about doing so, Casteja Vektch was the brave leader of the Chondathan Liberation Forces; an army fighting to depose Eles Wianar. Entreri tried not to roll his eyes at Jarlaxle's ability to keep the girl's glass full. It seemed a wonder she had shown interest in them at all, but as she continued to add heroic details to the 'army of liberators,' he put the puzzle together. She was what he thought of as a moth: a person attracted to excitement and danger.

The girl seemed young and foolish, but Entreri knew that her interest signaled support for Vektch close to an important port and an even more important city. It was a situation that boded badly for Arrabar. Jarlaxle's speculation of why Wianar allowed the Red Wizards an enclave suddenly became more valid.

Annoyed by the girl's infatuation with their target and the seductive danger his traveling partner was all too happy to play, Entreri stood and excused himself. He said nothing to the girl, but signed to Jarlaxle in drow code; _If the girl disappears from her father's sight, we'll lose what little welcome we have._

_I'd be happy to let him watch,_ came Jarlaxle's witty reply.

Entreri snorted, satisfied his partner knew what he was doing and would do a perfect job of squeezing the young woman of all the information she had. When the dark elf was done separating the kernels of truth from the chaff, he would probably finish by pumping her ego a bit and then leave her pining. Anything else the assassin did not want to hear about from Jarlaxle or their temporary landlord.

The assassin headed for their room with the intention of studying the map again in order to plan their trip on the Old Road through Chondalwood. He preferred to hook up with a caravan heading through the wood or perhaps even a band of mercenaries. The locals would know better what to expect from the wood other than the amorphous warnings about vicious satyrs and a vengeful coalition of druids. There was also the small matter of Jarlaxle's heritage possibly stirring up trouble among the rumored wild elf population.

Even though he had a room key, Entreri almost picked the lock to their room by sheer force of habit. Shaking his head, he slid the key from the leather band at his wrist and into the sturdy lock. The heavy tumblers thudded within the mechanism, creating a substantial noise in the hall that irritated the assassin. His annoyance fled when the noise triggered a rustle from within the rented room.

The scenario was nothing new to the assassin; he continued smoothly without the slightest hesitation. He turned the latch and pushed the door in, never missing a beat. Just as naturally, he walked into the room, ready for the ambush; jeweled dagger at his side in an overhand grip.

The attack did not come from either side of the door. In fact, there was no immediate attack at all. Entreri could see the intruder through the gloom the hallway's lights did little to pierce, sitting still on one of the two hard beds in the small room. It was a short, too slim vision of textured blackness that stared morosely up at Entreri with pale yellow eyes. Unlike most wretched drow, and they were all wretches by Entreri's estimation, this one had hair dyed to an obsidian blackness. The jet locks fell over a soft-featured, coal black, face that held an expression of somber patience.

It took a concerted expenditure of will not to immediately unsheathe Charon's Claw and shear the creature in half, despite the lack of threatening body language. If there was anything Entreri did not want to see, it was another drow.

In less time than it took to enter the room, the assassin had taken the dark elf's measure. By all appearances, the creature was quite young, an advantage in Entreri's favor. Negating the advantage, and immediately disturbing the man, was the male's lack of visible weapons. His whole body tensed and was ready to either leap back out of the room or surge forward to slaughter the motionless form.

"Please close the door." The drow's voice was soft as it was quiet and strongly accented, though not the sort of accent he came to expect from drow. The creature did not appear to be of Menzoberranzanyr stock.

Entreri made no move to close the door, simply continued to stare at the intruder with an expression that promised he would slit the young male's throat if he made any sudden moves. In response, the drow shifted his head slightly to one side; an obvious indication of curiosity that was not reflected in his pale eyes.

"Even though you are a human," the odd dark elf spoke, again quietly, and with little inflection, "I'm not skilled enough to kill you. I could only leave you with lasting damage before you ended me."

The blunt comment put Entreri at odds. Was this genuine respect or a ploy? He hated the endless onion skin of dark elven plots and intrigue. One never could tell where one stood with the deceptive creatures. "Why are you here? I warn you, I tolerate lies less than unwanted guests."

No expression moved the drow's handsome features; he continued to sit quietly on the bed, legs out straight and crossed at the ankles. If anything, he seemed almost bored. "Jarlaxle requested me. Kindly fetch him or take off your shirt and let me start."

This statement put Entreri back on his heels in an instant. What the hell was Jarlaxle playing at? Entreri's narrow gaze had been hateful before, but now it positively burned with baleful intensity. He wondered how upset his partner would be to find the youthful drow's corpse outside the door.

Fortunately for the intruder, the audible report of hard heeled boots on the flooring sounded down the hall. To indicate his extreme ire, Entreri began to casually twirl his jeweled dagger in a stationary circle with one finger. It was not a nervous habit, but a clear sign made to burn angry energy.

Jarlaxle was not unprepared for the tension he was entering; he'd known Kimmuriel would deliver the boy that night. Furthermore, he had allowed Entreri to find him just for the sport of riling him. When he saw the level of the man's irritation he sighed internally and made a note to be less vexing in the future. He walked smoothly into the tense atmosphere, pulling the door shut behind him and smiling congenially between the two. Entreri glared quickly at Jarlaxle, while the unfamiliar drow swiftly stood and threw his gaze to the floor in immediate respect.

"I see you've met the charming Jaka Mi'iduor," the flamboyant drow chuckled, amused both by Entreri's familiarity and the lad's contrasting respect. "He'll be doing some work for us."

"What work will he be doing that requires disrobing?" The demand was as blunt and angry as could be expected.

Jarlaxle smiled grandly, showing a crescent of perfectly white teeth in an expression the assassin knew preceded dreadful things. He was suddenly less sure he wanted a straight answer. "He's not a masseuse or prostitute, if that's your prudish worry. Though, I really think you could use both. Rather, he's a tailor!"

"I'd prefer a masseuse and prostitute!" The assassin exclaimed instantly, his gray eyes flew pointedly to Jarlaxle's horribly bright array of clothing. There was no way in all the Realms he was going to consent to being clothed by any tailor Jarlaxle used. He'd carve said tailor's fingers for bloody red ribbons first.

His response, also not unexpected, keyed Jarlaxle's sudden laughter. The assassin's angry incredulity was everything that made traveling with him enjoyable. "No, no," the maddening drow laughed, gesturing helplessly at the obediently silent dark elf standing by the bed. "I have my own tailor! The boy hasn't sewn a stitch for me."

Entreri turned a suspicious look from Jarlaxle to the black-haired male. "We can get tailors here in Shamph to sew clothes appropriate to the weather."

The logical statement prompted a subtle sneer from the drow across from them. Entreri filed the singular reaction away for future taunting, should he feel the need to do so. Beyond the simple reaction, Jaka kept his face averted.

"We could," Jarlaxle commented. His mirth had subsided but his spirits were obviously still quite high. "But, they wouldn't protect us like Jaka's would. Would they, my dear boy? And by our lady's eight legs, lift your head, would you?"

The lad's head came up, though his gaze never quite focused on Jarlaxle. "Of course, but I don't have much material left. It is a good thing your human is an agreeable shape."

"I'm remembering why I hate drow," Entreri growled at the possessive phrasing.

"You forgot?" Jarlaxle quipped, then advised the new drow to keep in mind that Entreri was not part of a skin-yielding herd. The assassin followed the uniquely drow conversation with half an ear, wondering instead what exactly his partner had in mind. He was interested in the prospect of light clothing with protective qualities and willing to give the dark elf his measurements to get them. The real issue was that he doubted Jarlaxle had called the lad in strictly for protective clothing.

When the short, but effective exchange ended, the black haired drow withdrew a long length of red measuring cord from the coarse black silk of his piwafwi. He moved toward the assassin with smooth caution.

Used to tailors above and below the surface world, Entreri simply recited his measurements in Drow, for the young male. The thought of anyone touching him was unwanted enough, but a drow's touch was worse. It was like having his flesh scouted for the optimal location for a spider's venomous bite.

Jaka shook his head slightly, switching to Drow since the assassin had indicated his understanding of the complicated language. "If I am to judge by the fit of your current attire, those measurements aren't exact. Human bodies change with age; muscles retreat, fat deposits encroach, the skin becomes less elastic and harder to work with…"

The lad trailed off, seeming to remember that he was supposed to be respectful to the human, which was just as well; Entreri didn't like where the conversation was leading. Not a saint by any standards, the assassin was disgusted by the thought of working with a creature that obviously had an intimate knowledge of working with human skin.

Throwing another glare at Jarlaxle, Entreri wordlessly stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto one of the bed posts. Like most drow, the tailor was diminutive in height, the top of his head barely reaching the bottom of Entreri's nose. Also like most drow, Jaka was swift with his hands, quickly drawing his cord across the breadth of the assassin's bare chest and along and around his arms in graceful extensions. As the tailor went about his impersonal work, his lips mouthed measurements, but he made no noise.

Entreri watched the dark elf's progress hawkishly in the room's only mirror as he moved to the assassin's back. It took less than a minute for him to complete the process and when he was done he approached Jarlaxle directly. The flamboyant dark elf had been watching with a faint smile while undoing the closures of his tight vest. He let the garment slide backwards down his arms without Entreri's looks of dire warning.

His work on Jarlaxle took almost half the time since the older drow knew the routine very well and gave the tailor's professional hands greater freedom. Jarlaxle was at home in the situation, even chatting with the boy throughout the measurements. Entreri noted that the lad only replied in short phrases in his distinctive accent.

When he finished with Jarlaxle, he coiled the red cord and slipped it back into his piwafwi. "I don't have enough material for trousers. I will use what I have to create shirts."

Jarlaxle's fine eyebrow rose in a unique expression of light hearted suspicion. "You aren't telling me this because you don't like wasting the last of it on a human, are you?"

For a long moment, the lad stared at Jarlaxle in his odd, unfocused way before answering simply. "No."

The older dark elf nodded, as if he believed the boy. "Good, because you'll be working with him in the not-so-distant future and you don't want the experience to be marred by a dagger to the back."

Both Entreri and Jaka narrowed their eyes in reaction to Jarlaxle's casual comment. The assassin didn't like the tailor and the idea of baby-sitting him held little appeal. The young drow made no reply, choosing to show his disdain by slipping his dull gaze back to the floor.

"We don't need a tailor to go with us," Entreri ground out. He was quite convinced Jarlaxle had made an impulsive decision in order to further entertain himself.

Jaka continued to say nothing, though the muscles underneath his smooth black jaw clearly bunched. His reaction gave the assassin the impression that the boy knew something Entreri did not. This was anything but an atypical reaction; the human turned his hard gaze back on a pleased Jarlaxle.

"You're right," Jarlaxle announced, slipping his vest back on. "What we really need is somebody who can protect you from a psionic weapon."

Entreri slowly reached up to the side of his own head and placed two fingers on his temple as if to assuage a sudden, and very intense, headache. "He's one of Kimmuriel's family?"

The assassin wasn't clear who he hated more; pontificating Drizzt or creatively malicious Kimmuriel. He decided on Kimmuriel since he was more immediate and insidiously difficult to predict.

"Possibly," Jarlaxle replied, watching the lad's careful lack of reaction. "He's from a far removed city that recently ceased to exist. Kimmuriel is training him in return for future favors and because I think he may genuinely like the boy's quiet demeanor."

It was another hard call to decide if he felt sorry for the young drow having to deal with Kimmuriel or hate him simply for learning he would have to rely on him. The thought of depending on anyone but himself inspired the assassin's ire and disgust. He had hoped his gauntlet would be more effective against psychic attack, but it was difficult to protect against something that hit with the speed of thought.

The young drow finally sighed and withdrew an item Entreri had seen, and used, before. It was a whistle, not unlike Jarlaxle's, only instead of summoning silence, it signaled the drow the assassin hated most in Bregan D'aerthe: Kimmuriel, current leader of Jarlaxle's mercenary band.

"I'll have the work done by this city's morning," the dark elf soberly assured them before he raised the whistle to his lips and gently exhaled.


	3. the wild in the wood

Disclaimer: Product processed in a plant that also processes peanuts.

_A/N: I tend to avoid using an 's' to indicate a plural when I think I can get away with it. There will be no drows, samurais, undeads, mustard gases, irradiated particles, bouncing betties or… who let the Geneva convention in here? Eventually, there will be violence, gore, and other fun things that violate the Geneva convention. _

_Extra special A/N: There is a reference to _leopard among jackals_ in here that will answer a question about a character from that story. (This chapter brought to you by gingko biloba and Ariel's last minute input.)

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_I spent spring, summer, autumn and winter  
and I have always been looking back.  
I spent spring, summer, fall and winter  
wandering around the dark forest_

-Cocco, _Sleeping Forest Prince (Spring, Summer, Autumn, Winter)_

_the wild in the wood_

Sleep was elusive that night. Entreri found himself envying Jarlaxle for the ability to ease into the elven state of rest called Reverie. He was a light sleeper, but even so, he could not sleep when his mind was occupied with a furious cycle of thoughts. At least in Reverie, as far as he understood it, he could channel those thoughts productively. But, no, the assassin found himself awake most of the night, fortified with suspicions and a low hum of paranoia.

He had known for some time that Jarlaxle kept contact with Kimmuriel; there was no other answer to the way the mercenary leader had handed the reins of Bregan D'aerthe to the psionicist after said psionicist had participated in a coup planned to depose and kill both Jarlaxle and Entreri. The same psionicist could locate them and open a dimension door within mere inches of their location.

Part of Entreri's inability to sleep soundly came from two dimensional doors that had already been created in the room he was residing in. He wondered how long would it take for Kimmuriel to develop the proper drow ambition to try to kill Jarlaxle for undisputed leadership of Bregan D'aerthe. Perhaps he would then seize Entreri's mind and simply slay him for sport. It was a deeply vexing situation and not one that lent him rest.

There was also the small matter of Casteja Vektch and the repeated rumors of his sentient psionic weapon. Entreri was certain what they had heard of the weapon had prompted Jarlaxle to contact Kimmuriel in the first place, not the need for clothes better suited to the region. He supposed the dark elven youth had been tapped for his mind magic and having him show up to make clothes was simply a way for Jarlaxle to get a feel of the boy's personality. It was typical Jarlaxle _modus operandi_.

Most people knew very little of the silent gift of psionics and Entreri found himself no exception. Through association with Kimmuriel, Entreri knew more about it than most, but even that was of little avail. He had coveted Charon's Claw and corresponding gauntlet in order to be more effective against mages and clerics, but when Rai'gy's push came to Kimmuriel's shove, Entreri had also desired the gauntlet on the off chance it could also capture and return psionic attacks.

He continued to think the gauntlet could, to some degree, react to psionics the way it did to magic, but he had yet to discern how his highly trained body could move to protect him before a psionic blast could explode inside his skull. Entreri knew of few things faster than the speed of thought and fewer yet that could predict a psionicist. At his stage of life, despite the shade's characteristics he'd absorbed through his vampiric dagger, the thought of haste spells no longer held an appeal.

Still thinking, the assassin sighed and turned over on his stomach in order to rise up on his elbows and stare into the blackness of their room. Even without the infravision earrings Jarlaxle had given him long ago or Charon's Claw, which rested in its scabbard on his weapons belt, looped over a bed post, Entreri could make out much of the pitch black room. The shade's life force had, perhaps, slowed his human aging process, but it had also leant him shade characteristics. Characteristics that made his Netherese blade respond to him in a much more benevolent fashion. He wasn't going to hold his breath, but the assassin hoped improved use of the gauntlet would follow the improved relations with Charon's Claw.

Hope. He _hoped_ the gauntlet would be of more help. He found himself remembering how much he despised mention of hope. Hope, he had always thought, was a waste of time and one of many stones that paved the way to certain death. Hope did nothing but foster foolish notions of magical goodwill appearing from nowhere, or, even worse, from a deity of some sort. Hope led lesser creatures to rely on weak and fallible options. Entreri never relied on hope. Either the gauntlet would be of use or it would not against the two psionic drow and Vektch's weapon. He would not put trust in psionic drow or empty hope.

There was also the consideration concerning the drow youth's training. While Entreri knew, and missed, the great advantage in the elasticity of youthful muscles, he wasn't convinced a youthful mind would be as advantageous to a psionicist. Though, according to someone he had known long ago, certain mathematical abilities began to degrade even in relative youth. For a moment, he wondered if she had really become an adventurer after her escape had taken her from the Basadoni Cabal's long reach. He killed the thought when he realized where it would lead.

He decided that, if nothing else, the young drow was disciplined, if not even more guarded with his emotions than other drow he had met. It was obvious Kimmuriel couldn't be spared, leading Bregan D'aerthe as he was and that was just as well. Entreri wondered how much information he could learn about psionics from the boy. Information was always key to success against an enemy.

Then there was Jarlaxle's open admiration and interest in their quarry. He still didn't think it was a casual interest, but something the devious dark elf had prior knowledge about. Was it the sword? Jarlaxle had a vast selection of bizarre magical items; more recently he'd been turning up a new array as if he had an enormous collection with him at all times. Entreri didn't doubt the likelihood, but wondered about the recent use of many he'd never seen before after months of the usual set.

A sentient sword that gave its wielder psionic abilities seemed up Jarlaxle's alley, but for one very glaring fact: the drow had to still be smarting from the sting of Crenshinibon's betrayal. If not for the crystal shard, Jarlaxle would never have made the grievous errors that had, more or less, cost him leadership of Bregan D'aerthe. No, if the sentient sword could use the psionic powers it gave its wielder, then Jarlaxle would not be interested in it, despite the reports of the huge jewel set in the crosspiece.

He didn't discount the thought that Jarlaxle somehow knew Vektch, but if he was honest about turning the man in to certain torture, then he might simply want to pit his skills against the bandit's. Or perhaps, acquisitive Jarlaxle wanted the sword as part of a prior arrangement; was there a drow in Menzoberranzan that desired a psionic weapon the way Entreri had desired Charon's Claw?

"If you keep this up all night, you'll keep me from rest."

Turning his head and brushing black strands of hair from his eyes, Entreri took in Jarlaxle's one-eyed gaze. The drow was lying on his back, head and shoulders propped up on his pillow and the one Entreri couldn't bring himself to use, despite his continued efforts to enjoy life a little more.

"I haven't said anything," Entreri replied, keeping his voice low. He had hardly moved before or after turning onto his stomach. It was easy for him to be comfortable on the hardest, lumpiest beds: he was perfectly used to sleeping on floors or rocky terrain, even in the rain.

"You don't have to," Jarlaxle sighed, "I can feel your tension. Relax; Kimmuriel won't be watching you sleep. He has too much to do in order to prepare our tailor for when we need him."

"But he will be watching," Entreri stated. His remark made it perfectly clear that Jarlaxle had guessed the assassin's train of thought.

"No," the mercenary returned, understanding his cagey partner's concern. "He would need somebody to scry you; Kimmuriel can't do that. And I do remember Rai'gy commenting that you had an uncanny ability to sense eyes on you. I think you'd know if anyone was looking in on you."

Entreri mulled this new information over with interest. If Kimmuriel couldn't scry them, how did he find them to deliver their temporary companion? The image of a silver whistle at the tailor's ebon lips came to mind. If Entreri had not left the room in disgust, he supposed he would have seen the whistle passed back to Jarlaxle. That, or more logically, Jarlaxle had his own.

"Is there an appointed hour the wretches will be returning?" Entreri planned to be absent if there was; he had no wish to set eyes on Kimmuriel if he could avoid it. Entreri was angry enough without outside help.

"Yes," the dark elf lied, hoping Entreri would let it go and get some sleep. "I'll let you know so you can be the first to see our new armor."

It was what Entreri wanted to hear. He understood the possibility the sly drow was lying to him, but he took it as truth for the moment. "I'm afraid I'll be busy getting the horses together. The boy is riding with you, unless you get him a mount."

"Actually, he won't be traveling with us right away." Jarlaxle stretched languidly as he spoke. "We'll bring him in when we get close to Casteja. Until then, Kimmuriel will continue training and imparting his experience of the surface to him."

If not for the second half of what Jarlaxle said, Entreri would have been satisfied with the first part. With his paranoia tamped down, the assassin felt sleep drift into possibility. "In that case, he'll ride with you when we get close to Vektch."

>X 

The stable hands were more than happy to let Entreri prepare and saddle both horses the following morning. The chore kept the assassin busy while the dark elves conducted their business. Jarlaxle insisted tailors liked to see how their clothes fit their recipient, but Entreri had simply bared his teeth in what was supposed to be a smile, but had all the dimensions of a snarl. He'd told the drow to tell the tailor he had the utmost confidence in his ability to sew to the meticulous measurements he'd taken. He had then left to speak with the innkeeper about finding a group traveling through Chondalwood.

Wanting nothing so much than to get the two out of his sight, the innkeeper made himself helpful, though his voice was little more than a growl. Entreri blamed the man's attitude on Jarlaxle's antics with the man's daughter, but didn't mind, as the man seemed helpful, if only for the sake of pragmaticism. In little time, he advised Entreri of a caravan from Hlath that stopped there the same night with plans to get through Chondalwood on its way to Elbulder.

By the time he had the horses ready to go and was guiding them out of the stable, Jarlaxle was coming up to the door, his usual clothes as blinding as ever. There was only one addition; underneath the vest the dark elf was wearing a simple, tastefully designed garment made of what looked like black linen. Entreri was shocked; Jarlaxle was wearing something both tasteful and sensible. He was tempted to reconsider his opinion of their future helper on the spot.

In one hand Jarlaxle carried a folded rectangle of cloth that was equally black and without the subdued sheen associated with the silks drow seemed to favor. When he reached Entreri he offered the material to him with a smirk. "They aren't identical, thank the gods. I'd hate for us to look like a happy couple."

Entreri snorted derisively at the statement and took the garment. He was surprised by the feel of the cloth, which was not like linen so much as suede. The thread count was unspeakably compressed. Curious despite himself, he handed the horses' reins to his partner and ran his thumbs over the soft black material. "What is this made of?"

Jarlaxle shrugged helplessly. "I would love to know. It is impervious to radiant heat and punctures, though it will not protect you from any bruising impacts."

Stretching and crumpling the cloth did not result in the material losing shape or wrinkling; Entreri was impressed, but a practical question was the first thing out of his mouth. "If this resists arrows and knives, how did he sew it?"

Jarlaxle paused, at a loss for one of those very rare moments in his eventful life. How indeed? Few possibilities came to mind except the obvious. "Magic needles?"

Entreri nodded; it was a good answer, but he didn't understand another part of the protection, either. "What do you mean by radiant heat?"

Here Jarlaxle's smile returned in full flower. He raised one black hand and drummed his fingers on an imaginary surface. "It won't protect you from fireballs, if that's what you're asking." Due to the context of the conversation, Entreri focused momentarily on the reddish gold ring he believed to be in question. "It protects from sunlight."

An amused snort was Entreri's only reply, though he found himself impressed with the idea of a black shirt that did not soak up the sun's rays and proceed to bake the occupant alive. He held up before him, taking into the very simple nature of the garment. Jarlaxle's was equally conservative in cut, but with subtle embroidery in a shiny black floss that created designs in negative space along the cuffs and neck. Entreri's was bare of all ornament, but for pragmatic straps and buckles along the forearms and shoulders where the assassin could, he discovered, convert the garment to a sleeveless affair.

He had thought to postpone wearing the shirt, for the morning was still a bit chill, but he changed his mind when he grudgingly decided he liked it. With Jarlaxle there to watch his back, Entreri stripped off his leathers to his sleeveless undershirt and slipped the sleek garment over his head. He put the leathers on back over it, satisfied they would keep him comfortable until the day warmed up.

As the man adjusted the straps at his wrists, which helped cover the lock picks and stiletto he kept there, Jarlaxle looked on with interest. "A perfect fit if almost intolerably drab. He refused to add any color to mine at all, but I suppose that only relieves a curmudgeon like you."

Entreri shrugged and took his horse's reins back. "I've decided that I don't hate the tailor after all. You've been toned down and I don't look a fool. In fact, I officially pity him for having Kimmuriel as a task master."

The drow frowned looking down at his clothing and patted his covered abdominal muscles. "Toned down? Has it mitigated my looks by hiding one of my best features? Ah! I wondered why there were no lacings or fastenings in the front! At least the embroidery is nice."

Not wishing to further the topic, Entreri made no reply and slipped a foot into a stirrup. As soon as he was in the saddle, he told his partner about the caravan he had heard about. They made haste in order to catch the travelers before they left.

They found the caravan at a crossroads between two inns the members had stayed at. In truth, there was only one wagon going through Chondalwood from the large caravan, but was separating from the larger group which had decided to brave the trade war between Iljak and Hlath. They were continuing to Iljak that day. When Enteri asked why the traders had traveled by road instead of sea, they cited the dangers of piracy and the possibility of the trade war slopping over into the waterways.

The two merchants with their solitary wagon had already hired a group of six mercenaries, but had no qualms hiring two more with Entreri doing the negotiating. The merchants balked when they caught sight of Jarlaxle, who had wisely hung back while the assassin did the talking, but were too afraid of the black-skinned elf to protest. The two merchants, the Entreri noted, were not stone-faced Chondathans.

The cargo was mostly comprised of exotic teas, cooking spices, and some medicinal herbs, but Jarlaxle seemed to think there was more to the proclaimed wares than met the eye. The enterprising drow failed to interest Entreri with the possibilities. The assassin was more interested in riding alongside one of the mercenaries and gathering as much information about the dangerous wood they would be entering the next day.

Chondalwood was everything a mysterious wood should be, from the vaulted canopy of old trees to the ground mist that took most of the morning to disperse. Jewel toned birds sped from the road into the deep brush as the group approached and scolded them from hidden places. The spring foliage of the wood matched the birds perfectly in a joyous outpouring of green, pink, and yellow. The heady smells of jasmine, clover and fragrant hard woods added to the forest's overwhelming appeal and assault on the senses. As they traveled deeper into the wood, the sunlight became a dappled, unreliable thing; it was almost impossible to find a place to stand where shadow would not be cast over some portion of the body.

The first day in the wood, Jarlaxle was ready to raid the horse drawn wagon in search of something that would drive away the incessant insect population. Entreri took pity and asked the two merchants if they had any garlic with them; popular talk in Calimshan maintained that eating the pungent herb was a natural remedy against biting insects. The assassin wasn't sure this was anything more than a myth. He hadn't often been a victim to mosquitoes in his native country which he could blame on either the almost excessive use of garlic in Calishite cuisine or the lack of standing water in Calimport for the annoying pests to breed in.

The merchants denied possession of the herb, but suggested that it might grow wild along the road. Having never seen the plant in anything other than in clean white heaps of cloves or cut into various forms in his food, Entreri was at a loss. As the most frequent target of the insects, Jarlaxle wasted no time getting a description of wild garlic from one of the mercenaries and extracting a promise from their ranger to help look for it.

Meanwhile, the dark elf had found, to his relief, the new shirt saved his torso and arms from the tiny pests, but his neck and hands were open game. At night he found Reverie difficult with the annoyingly loud sound of mosquitoes strafing his head, despite draping the shirt over his face and neck from beneath his hat and offering his bare arms up for sacrifice.

Entreri found the mosquitoes and biting gnats annoying, but his strong discipline made it much easier for him to ignore them. He occasionally considered telling Jarlaxle to move into their campfire's smoke to escape the pests, but decided two could play the game of 'perpetual annoyance.' He marked it down as comeuppance for the drow's endless efforts to needlessly rile him. He took a perverse pleasure in the chronic slapping of Jarlaxle's be-ringed hand against black skin. It wasn't until the morning after the first night in Chondalwood that Entreri suggested his remedy to the uncommonly miserable drow until garlic could be found.

It took a significant mustering of will for Jarlaxle to refrain from slipping the miniature war hammer from his hatband and pulverize the assassin for the omission. Fortunately for both of them, the dark elf didn't revel in anger. He converted his sudden intense ire into good humor and shook his head in good nature.

"Ah, my sneaky friend," the dark elf chuckled, as they broke camp, "I admit, I've had this coming for some time. Unfortunately, I will be avenging myself for your ungentlemanly cruelty."

"No one has ever accused me of being a gentleman," Entreri smirked, kicking dirt over the last of the fire's coals.

"Now whose fault is that?" Jarlaxle returned, uncovered eye glinting in the morning light. The eye patch, the assassin noted, had been switched to the dark elf's opposite blood red eye. "It is never too late for an old dog to learn a few more tricks."

Shrugging off yet another barb concerning his age, Entreri moved away from the dark elf to discuss riding order with the other mercenaries. He found most of the group in a discussion that instantly caught the assassin's interest. The group's ranger, while scouting ahead, had found several sets of tracks that seemed at first glance to belong to a group of riders. On further examination the ranger, Shir, noticed the front set of the horse's legs had scored the ground in the grass and across the road much deeper than a normal rider would.

The ranger concluded a group of five or six centaurs had not only noticed them, but were hanging around the area. Entreri stared at the woman for a few moments with the rest of the group. The assassin let the others ask his questions for them.

"Have you guessed their intentions?"

She shook her head, "They're either small for their kind or young. I think they're young, which could be a problem if they decide we're a good target to prove themselves on. Chondalwood centaurs are tribal and the young often prove themselves adults through physical and mental battles."

"Will our employers' agreement with the Emerald Coalition do us any good?"

Entreri was quick to recall the coalition in question was one comprised of Chondalwood's famously savage druids; they were not to be taken lightly by any stretch of the imagination.

Shir shrugged at this question and rubbed the cropped hair at the back of her head. "As a follower of Chaundea, I'll have more sway than those two and their little agreement. I'm more concerned they'll have a problem with the black elf."

At this, all eyes turned to Entreri. The assassin was hardly surprised by the semicircle of blank faces around him; none of the mercenaries spoke to Jarlaxle beyond answering him in mono-syllabic replies. In the beginning, Chondathans seemed more immune to the dark elf's race than most, but it hadn't taken long to understand the deceptive appearance. The people of Chondath were overwhelmingly human; Entreri had only seen a few other races in Iljak, even though it was a port town.

Despite the clear stamp of his Calimshan heritage, Entreri was treated with respect among them, which he assumed had as much to do with his demeanor and age than anything else. If the Chondathans had use for terms like 'good' and 'evil,' the dark elf might have had a much worse reception in Chondath.

For all that, the assassin didn't feel like caving to the unspoken demand the six mercenaries undoubtedly had in mind. He didn't acknowledge their looks; he didn't respect them and they didn't intimidate him. If he so desired, he could kill each and every one of them at the time of his choosing. His level of confidence and security gave him power over them, whether they knew it or not.

"Well then, follower of Chaundea," Entreri stated with a calmness that hinted directly at his low level of concern. "I'm sure I speak for all of us when I say, if the centaurs have a problem with my partner, they will find us all learned in the art of armed negotiations. I'm confident we will stand together or fall divided."

The eyes trained on the assassin became pointed, but Entreri's will was even more impenetrable than the black shirt he wore. "Divided," he added, driving his threat home, "into very small pieces and cast onto stone, where they will nourish nothing."

For nearly a full minute the six hardened mercenaries stood staring at the assassin. Even as a group their will faded before the iron gaze that stared at them as if they were nothing more than another breed of annoying insects. His eyes seemed to suggest that even if they did get a taste of his blood, they would not only dislike the taste, but die for the honor.

In the end, they turned their eyes away, some wondering if Calimshan was so dry that its people had adapted a talent for blinking less than any other nationality. They continued to discuss the centaurs without mention of Jarlaxle. It was decided the centaurs, at the very least, would probably follow them for a while before attacking or abandoning them for something less formidable.

Riding order was agreed on and camp completely broken. When Entreri finally found his way back to Jarlaxle to update him on the centaurs and riding arrangements, the dark elf listened with a smug grin on his face. The assassin didn't like the look and began to wonder if the drow's vengeance for the night of mosquitoes was close at hand.

The dark elf didn't say a word, but continued to give him the infuriatingly pleased expression. Determined to ignore Jarlaxle, but painfully paranoid, Entreri urged his horse a good distance from the drow. This reaction only drew the dark elf into a chuckle. Jarlaxle shook his head, monstrous red plume swaying back and forth with the motion. "Artemis, I'm deeply touched by your sentiment!"

"Don't be," the assassin replied, thinking the male was referring to Entreri's sudden caution. "The day I trust you will be the same I dig my own grave with the bridge of my nose."

Laughing again, this time at the image the assassin inspired, Jarlaxle put his hands up in a gesture of helplessness. "No, no, I mean the way you threatened to vivisect everyone on my behalf!"

Entreri's lip curled in response. "That wasn't for you, it was because they were being fools. If I can't get you to disguise yourself in so-called goodly lands, there's no way to get you to do so in malicious ones. It would be easier to kill them than get a bag over your despicable black head."

Jarlaxle continued with his smug expression and shrugged. "Who cares? The important thing is that you defended me. Now I wish Jaka _had_ made us matching shirts; evidently we're a happy couple after all!"

"I don't want to hear it," the assassin growled, touching his mount's flanks and pulling its reins to direct it around and past the drow in order to bring up the rear. Unfortunately, he wasn't out of earshot of Jarlaxle's chuckling.

Coming up behind didn't bother the assassin. For one, he was well-used to watching people from behind before knifing them in the back. For two, he found he preferred the view of a collection of horse's asses to further conversation with the drow or any of the mercenaries.

As he rode, the assassin's senses were heightened, looking for any signs of pursuit from centaurs or otherwise. The trip through the wood had seen little in the way of encounters. The first day they had come across a strange thing the mercenaries called a shambling mound that reminded Entreri of an animated compost heap. At the night the wood was alive with nerve wracking sound, punctuated with terrible silences.

Entreri didn't think their luck, the merchants' agreement, or the ranger's association with Chaundea, were going to amount to a completely unmolested journey through a wood that captured even the guarded Chondathans' imagination. He could maintain his heightened state of alert for months without end; it had been a constant way of life in Calimport. Indeed, it had been the same for what little he recalled of his short time as a child in Memnon. Such was life for predators and prey in the city wilds, worse than nature with the added dangers of depravity and humiliation.

Balancing on the edge of awareness and almost supernatural acuity, the assassin sifted through the wood's cacophony listening for the acoustic picture surrounding him. The sounds of the wagon, pulled by the team of four sturdy percheron, was an object that drowned out many of the noises coming from ahead, so the man's main focus remained in his immediate vicinity and far behind.

At least the gelding Entreri was sitting had been trained to achieve a smooth, reasonably quiet gait. The assassin was more than skilled enough as a rider to direct the animal to stay in that gait, even though it had shown a dogged determination for cantering early in the trip. It had since learned, like a variety of others before it, Entreri was the master of their relationship. It made no more attempts to alter its steps to suit its own pleasure.

It wasn't long before the audible surroundings of the wood began to occasionally speak of the presence of another traveler or group of travelers. The birds and squirrels that were more than happy to alert the wood to the wagons and horses with chattering and sharp cries, didn't always discriminate from the pursuit moving through the woods. The lack of discrimination meant whatever was following was something predatory. The animals heralded nothing more, perhaps, than a fox, nothing less than a few curious, possibly hostile, centaurs.

Ever cautious, Entreri got Jarlaxle's attention by calling out 'pursuit' in drow; he didn't want possible enemies distracting the dark elf by learning his name. The drow in question twisted back halfway in order to get his hands in Entreri's sharp sight. _Where?_

_If they were on the road, I'd say short bow distance, northwest._

Entreri noted Jarlaxle's nod and knew what the drow was up to when he casually spurred his lovely roan mare up to make delighted conversation with the mercenary closest to him. While the news spread, the assassin continued to stay attentive to the sounds surrounding them; especially those behind him and to his left. The disturbances were far enough away that he thought it plausible their pursuer didn't know he was on to them.

Whether they were or not, they continued on until noon without seeing anything new. When the sun was at its zenith, the group came to a halt to rest the horses and have a quick meal together. The group's ranger came out of the woods a few minutes later, picking dirt off what Entreri recognized as a bulb of garlic. He smirked wryly when she handed it to Jarlaxle and the dark elf proceeded to shower her with his thanks. The assassin suspected that he was not the only person the drow enjoyed annoying.

While they ate cold soup cut with vinegar and hard bread, their ranger told them she'd found a fresh evidence of two or three centaurs running along ahead of them. The two merchants were torn between the confidence they had in their agreement with the druids of Chondalwood and concern about the centaurs. Finally, one of them quipped that centaurs were better than thieves. The comment brought a few snorts of laughter from the mercenaries. After all, few thieves would brave the wrath of the Emerald Coalition or the divisions of Vektch's Chondathan Liberation Forces that took cover from Wianar's armies in the wood and lent their aid to the Coalition in order to cement good relations.

Living up to their warlike reputation, the Chondathan mercenaries voiced hopes that they would be attacked. Entreri found he wasn't opposed to a conflict that might alleviate the stress that came from having to deal with dark elves, mind readers, and a bandit captain he had yet to lay eyes on. Jarlaxle was less interested in conflict, choosing instead to relate his curiosity in seeing a creature that could be equally miserable as a drider. The drow feigned disbelief when Entreri explained centaurs were 'born that way.'

The rest of the day passed under the scrutiny of their four-legged pursuers. Toward evening, the centaurs were no longer making any attempt at secrecy. Jarlaxle was pleased to sight them down the road under the canopy of Chondalwood's huge trees. He watched in interest as three of the beasts capered and reared on their way from one side of the road to another, playing some sort of heavily physical game.

Shir joined him for a time; she had to squint to see much of what came clearly to Jarlaxle's naturally keen sight. "Lost interest in being secretive, but every time I get near them they move off. I got very close to a stallion and while his shock was clear when I called to him, he wouldn't speak to me."

The dark elf nodded; he had already processed what the centaurs' behavior could mean. He continued watching the occasional beast dart across the road far ahead, often chased by another one, out of pure curiosity. "What are they doing now?"

"Playing," she shrugged. "One of them was carrying a metal orb around that I think they're using for some sort of game. I suppose you could always ask them to let you join."

When she saw the widening of his eyes and the smile blooming across his face, the woman immediately took hold of his elbow. "That's a joke! They'd trample you flat."

He smirked at her and looked down at his arm where her hand clutched his elbow through the smooth fabric of his black shirt. Not easily intimidated, she did not release her grip. "Perhaps they don't want to speak to you, because they're planning on slaughtering us when reinforcements arrive."

Her grip on his elbow loosened and her hand fell away slowly. "No," she replied, shaking her head for emphasis, "none of them have left the group. They haven't decided what they're doing yet. They're a motley group of youngsters and most of the games you see involve a fair bit of roughhousing to impress the two mares in the group. They're going to try something, but I doubt they're reckless enough to attack.

"If anyone is going to attack us, it will be the druids of Silvanus and that, I assure you, will not be pretty."

Adding violent druids to his running equations, Jarlaxle nodded and watched down the road for more sightings of the large beasts. Driders, he mused, were solitary in their misery, and only played with their prey; centaurs were nothing like them after all. He stood watching down the road long after the centaurs had stopped crashing through the forest on either side, wondering how many drow he had known in his many years that were unfortunate enough to be turned into driders.

Entreri didn't question his partner's sudden melancholy. Once again, he didn't think it would last the night. As was his custom, he opted not to look the gift horse in the mouth and let the dark elf think to himself. Beyond cooking up the wild garlic with scavenged potatoes and lemon peel Entreri had pilfered easily from the wagon, neither of them had much to say that night. It was as if the stoic mercenaries were dampening the dark elf's mood, though Entreri knew otherwise.

In the morning, Jarlaxle was back in high spirits and chatting amiably, mostly with the two merchants as they had grown impressed with the drow's gift of speech. He only left them when they started hitching the four draft horses to their wagon. At that point Jarlaxle mounted his mare and rode up to tease the assassin.

"What do you think of these Chondathan steeds?" Jarlaxle asked, his tone carefully innocuous.

Entreri was anything but fooled by the question or tone. "They aren't as spirited as horses from Calimshan. If you were thinking of the conversation we had the other night, I regret to inform you I haven't bought the pillow sheets yet."

"No, I was just thinking that if we find a Calishite centaur," the dark elf mercenary smirked immediately, "I will tell her how highly you think of her people."

Entreri stared blankly at the drow. It was bad enough when his partner teased him about women; women with horse bodies was substantially worse. "This is not a good way to start the day, Jarlaxle."

"Of course, even if I could be your matchmaker, the fact remains that a centaur might find you woefully inade—"

Uninterested in hearing the rest of Jarlaxle's lewd commentary, Entreri slapped his palm across the roan mare's flank, signaling the horse to take off in a short but effective burst. A few of the mercenaries' grim facades cracked into small smiles as the dark elf laughingly did his best to rein his mount in. Those expressions faded in the next instant as a thunderous sound came rumbling toward them from further up the road.

The centaurs were not as large as Jarlaxle had thought, though he conceded that they were quite impressive charging toward him at full gallop while he was just getting his mare under control. Their humanoid upper bodies were not bloated or tortured at all. The humanoid torsos moved in harmony with their equine bodies and were powerfully built or wiry according to the breed of horse they seemed to most resemble. They had no trouble hefting spears and slinging huge sling bullets as they bore down on him in a thundercloud of dust and powerful battle cries.

On account of his quick mind, he took in many interesting details while readying his defense.


	4. war is kind, part the first

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer. No animals were harmed in the writing of this fanfic, but at least one blind feline was teased mercilessly.

A/N: I have found you don't take slings seriously in modern times… until you put a hole in a neighbor's fence with an ice cube. At least the evidence melted. No wonder Roman slingers were so effective and the Conquistadors equated the Inca slings on par with .78 caliber muskets.

* * *

_Hoarse, booming drums of the regiment,  
__Little souls who thirst for fight,  
__These men were born to drill and die.  
__The unexplained glory flies above them,  
__Great is the Battle-God, great, and his Kingdom—  
__A field where a thousand corpses lie.  
-_Stephen Crane, _War is Kind_

_no morals, no dilemma_

Four wild centaurs were bearing down on Jarlaxle with murderous intent, scattering dirt about them as he scattered his comparisons to the tortured driders of the Underdark. It was impossible that the spider-bodied drow could make as much noise no matter how they tried. They certainly couldn't shake the earth the way the huge centaurs nearing him were.

Behind him, Jarlaxle heard Entreri calling him an idiot and telling him to get out of the way. Above him flew bullets from two of the centaurs' slings. Ahead of him was the same ferocious sight; lips drawn back over bared teeth, eyes narrowed on him with deadly intent, and multiple heavy hooves backed by a tremendous amount weight. Beneath him was one very nervous roan mare; she was beginning to prance in place.

Unlike his horse, Jarlaxle was unflappable. A grin stretched across his face as the centaurs grew ever closer, he already had his defense prepared; was even twirling the black fabric disk on one finger as the enemy approached. When the concussions of hooves beating the road became almost too much for his mare to stand against, Jarlaxle tossed the disc out and wheeled her away.

The centaurs hardly noticed the disc; it didn't affect them in the least. The first in the group, a lean centaur built for speed rather than endurance, made to charge right over it. He was shocked to learn the fabric had expanded into a large black pit on its way to the ground. It was as if he suddenly just ceased to exist. He was there and then he was gone, taking his heavily percussive gait and sling with him.

The centaurs behind him roared in rage and shock at the surprise. Their single-minded charge was broken up as the two flanking the first centaur peeled away to miss the pit and the mare behind him had to make an impressive leap to avoid the same fate.

By the time the centaurs had negotiated the pit, the mercenaries had already set up a defensive line of four to receive the charge. The merchants had given up trying to attach the team of horses to their wagon and were, instead, hiding in the midst of the steady beasts.

Entreri had acted on instinct as soon as he understood Jarlaxle had his side of the situation under control. Though a skilled rider, Entreri didn't trust his horse enough to use it as a platform for combat. He leapt from the gelding and headed behind the wagon. He suspected if they had four centaurs attacking from the front there would be another two attacking from the rear or sides. The ranger and another mercenary had the same thought and had beat the assassin to the back by opting not to dismount. Both noted Entreri's appearance, but soon lost sight of the assassin as he blended easily into the woods' deep morning shadows.

The two centaurs Entreri had expected came from opposite angles, with no regard for the rear of the wagon. They came out of the forest, headed on separate courses that converged on the team of four horses the merchants were huddled within. Only one made it to the draft horses.

The wagon rocked violently as nearly half a ton of wild horse and humanoid flesh collided bodily with it in a fine spray of blood and rough screaming. The impact packed so much force with the speed and weight of the monstrous body that the wagon was shoved sideways across the road and the wooden sides. The crack of timber added to sound of the collision.

Flailing and kicking up clouds in the road's dust, the confused centaur could not understand what had happened. It had never seen Entreri in the woods, had no time to feel the pain as both its hind legs were mercilessly hamstrung. There was blood spraying from its hind legs and the creature could not reach them with his human hands.

In front of the wagon, the mercenaries had formed up to receive the three charging centaurs coming at them. They had quickly noted the lead bullets from the slings had gone overhead, but were determined to fend off any of the creatures that came near. Indeed, the centaurs seemed prepared to peel off and charge back into the wood until something hit the wagon, nearly sending it into the woods. When the panicked screaming erupted from the same direction, the three centaurs' eyes grew wide and crazed. Several reared and changed tactics; they were suddenly recommitted to attack.

"Stop!" Came another voice Jarlaxle knew as Shir's. "Don't hurt them! They're only after the horses!"

Unfortunately, neither centaurs nor the other mercenaries were inclined to listen to her; the damage was done and the centaurs were serious.

The centaur on the opposite side of the wagon, had initially seized hold of the tack and harness connecting the draft horses, but when her compatriot had struck the wagon with full force, she had to dance back to avoid getting tangled up with the horses and fleeing merchants. With the merchants out of the way and the wagon not going anywhere, she yanked on the harnesses again and struck at their flanks with her empty sling. This had the desired effect of driving the percheron forward as when Entreri had smacked Jarlaxle's roan.

The team began to gallop out, but was seized in turn by the mercenary that had been with Shir. He became the immediate target of the female centaur. She reared impressively, slamming her front hooves into his thigh and his mount's neck while he tried to hold the team. The other horse, trained for combat, did not panic as blood sprayed from its throat, but reared with a scream to counter attack. Neither were aware of the assassin slipping up to them with his jeweled dagger in hand.

Meanwhile, at the front of the wagon, one of the mercenaries was down, hit by a sling bullet and the remaining three were trading blows with the three centaurs still standing. Jarlaxle headed back to the wagon where the hamstrung centaur was trying to drag itself away by its forelegs and another was beating a mercenary and his mount to death with its hooves. Thinking to come to the poor man's aid, Jarlaxle drew out his silver topped cane, intending to fill the offending centaur full of poison darts.

He needn't have bothered. There was a swift shadow and a glint of steel and suddenly the centaur was falling backwards and away from the fight. Just as Entreri had hamstrung one centaur, he was more than capable of doing the same to the other. The dark elf almost felt sorry for the beasts; as large as they were, they really had no way to protect themselves behind when engaged in the front. Perhaps if she had kept her front feet down, she could have caved in the assassin's skull, but he doubted she would have seen the assassin coming in any case.

Entreri took little satisfaction in his victory; there was little challenge in taking out such an easy target. He caught Jarlaxle's eye as he glanced toward the battle raging to the front of the skewed wagon. The dark elf threw him a sly wink and jaunty salute, which was received with a grim look indicating Entreri's disgust. The dark elf didn't need an explanation to understand that look; the assassin hardly thought the battle worth his time.

Rather than lend any immediate aid to the battle still going on before him, Entreri turned the dagger over in his hand and walked over to the female centaur who was doing her best to drag herself away like her cohort. Aware of the danger her front hooves presented the assassin, stepped up from her blind side and wiped his blade clean on her flank. By the time she twisted her torso around to strike at him he was gone again.

Entreri met Jarlaxle again as the dark elf was bringing the team of four horses back to the wagon. They found Shir there already, cursing with vigor and fury as she and one of the merchants tried to staunch the flood of blood gushing down her compatriot's body from shoulder and chest wounds broken open in his body by the female centaur's hooves.

When she saw Entreri she nearly came to her feet in a rage. "You ass! They were only trying to scare us! It wouldn't have escalated, if you hadn't crippled him!"

The assassin ignored her completely, looking to Jarlaxle casually. "Can your orb help him?"

The dark elf nodded, rolling the healing orb over his hand in lazy loops as he replied. "That was my intention with the beasts, too."

On the heels of Jarlaxle's reply, Entreri glanced at the ranger, his expressionless look telling her in no uncertain terms who he considered the ass in the party. Even as he walked away, the other mercenaries were coming back, having put the remaining centaurs to rout.

While Jarlaxle used his unusual healing orb to stabilize the injured, Entreri walked the battle's perimeter. He found the centaur he'd hamstrung first had been dragged away, leaving a bloody trail the assassin could follow with his eyes closed. The female was gnashing her teeth and trying to flee; he didn't think she was going anywhere. The horse she'd attacked was lying nearby where it had fallen and succumbed to the grievous injuries her hooves had inflicted. Another horse was lying dead near Jarlaxle's portable hole.

The assassin leaned down to pick up the hole, always keeping his senses trained on the forest, which had grown silent with the battle. He smirked wryly and stepped back when a lead projectile flew out of the deep pit. Obviously the initial victim of the battle couldn't get itself out of the hole Jarlaxle had thoughtfully provided. He reasoned that they had two captives to interrogate, three if they wanted to run down the centaurs burdened with the hamstrung male.

Moving with calm confidence, Entreri made a full circuit of the area and came back to the wagon where he had started out. The scene was less grim when he arrived. Jarlaxle had stabilized the injured mercenaries and one of the merchants, who had nearly been trampled to death when the male centaur had struck the wagon. Entreri considered both merchants fools for taking cover in the midst of sixteen potentially deadly hooves.

He found the dark elf using the orb to heal the female centaur's crippling injury while the ranger spoke firmly to her. One of the other mercenaries was crouched beside the creature, a crossbow cranked and aimed at her humanoid chest. They were making very little progress in trying to get the centaur to cooperate with them until the assassin approached. She had not seen her attacker when he had cut her, nor when he had wiped her own blood off on her flank, but her nose was thick with his smell.

Her large, expressive eyes rolled in a horse-like manner as she saw him and took in his scent. At first she made to bolt, but the crossbow startled her as it came up and the ranger commanded her firmly to cease. She sank down again and Jarlaxle rolled his magical orb over his hand and into a sleeve of his new shirt.

"Do you remember the plan now?" The ranger's question was firm, taking advantage of the centaur's fear.

Entreri and Jarlaxle were somewhat surprised when the mare replied in a firm grasp of the Common tongue. "We weren't going to hurt you!" Her voice struggled with fear and righteous indignation. "We were just playing a game!"

It suddenly struck Jarlaxle as he looked at the creature's large, frightened eyes that Shir had been correct the night before; the animals were young and the one he had healed was more filly than mare. "The reasoning seems sound," the dark elf soothed, but he smiled in such an ingratiating way that Entreri was instantly tipped off.

Counting on the intimidating look of his bloodthirsty sword, Entreri half unsheathed Charon's claw so the centaur could take a good look at the blood red blade and boney hilt. "I don't believe it. We're on a schedule. If she isn't going to tell us the truth, we should just kill her and move on."

The Chondathans knew what Entreri and Jarlaxle were up to, but the display of the centaur's strong emotions served to unsettle them more than the unusual pair's tactics. The filly flinched away from Entreri, her large brown eyes growing wet but her hands clenched into fists. She was torn between sensible equine instincts of fight or flight.

Shir played along expertly. "Tell us the whole truth, so we can let this become the living past."

Jarlaxle leant his expert aid, manipulating the centaur as only he could. "My dear," he began in the same soothing tone, "The unfortunate truth is that we truly are on a schedule as our deadly compatriot crudely put it. You put quite a bit of our time to waste because of your attack. Now, tell us the truth, why were you after our horses?"

Brown eyes darted from Charon's Claw, to the ranger, to the crossbow, and finally back to Jarlaxle's sympathetic expression. Entreri wondered, as he watched the filly, if she had ever heard of drow. He strongly doubted it. "To prove we're adults," she explained fiercely, glaring around at all of them and then back at Jarlaxle. "We weren't supposed to hurt any of you, just take the horses and bring them back tonight."

While she made this explanation, both Jarlaxle and Entreri, old hands at watching eyes for indications of a lie, were gratified to see the creature was giving every indication of honesty. In fact, her answer hinted at something else the partners both picked up on; the hint of outside influence.

"Who gave you this task?" Jarlaxle asked quickly, putting a note of concerned familiarity in his tone meant to indicate anger at the unnamed party rather than the centaur.

"Narbeli," the filly replied testily, as if this information was obvious or well-known. The reaction only gave rise to further questions.

"Narbeli?" Shir asked, showing clear recognition. A look of instant comprehension dawned on her face, her eyes growing wide. "_Narbeli?_ Why would she involve herself?"

All eyes were directed at the ranger's reaction to the unknown name. "She's no stranger to us," the centaur snorted, taking advantage of their distraction to pull her hind legs underneath her haunches. "She was clear that we could hurt you, but couldn't kill you. Just take the horses and return them tonight when the rains come."

"There's a second wave," Jarlaxle stated ominously, standing up from where he had kneeled to heal the filly. Feeling the unspoken sentiment that they no longer needed the centaur, the crossbow man averted his weapon from her.

As expected, the filly interpreted this move as her cue to take immediate flight, launching herself on powerful legs to flee into the woods' deep cover. She wasn't fast enough to avoid Jarlaxle's quick hand. Not to be left out of all the amusing flank slapping, he managed to tag her rump as she shot past. Entreri didn't miss the connection; he threw Jarlaxle one of the most revolted looks the drow had ever seen the assassin's face compose.

Despite the foreboding mood the dark elf had spawned, Jarlaxle winked at Entreri. "I said _you_ would be inadequate, I never said I was."

Entreri immediately threw a gesture in the direction of the portable hole and its occupant. "You would need that hole of yours to hide something like that and I don't think it will do you any good with a true stallion already in it."

The ranger and human mercenary paused momentarily, casting looks of incredulity at the two despite their ingrained Chondathan stoicism.

Jarlaxle slapped a hand to his chest, feigning a life threatening injury. "Gods above and below, Artemis, you've drawn blood!" Without a sly retort for the assassin, Jarlaxle continued, "I yield the field to you, my bitter and ultimately undersexed friend."

With impressive alacrity, the human mercenary with the crossbow pre-empted Entreri's well-deserved gloating with a roll of his eyes. "Three days we've had to listen to this bullshit. Carry it on a moment further and we toss you both to the druids."

Entreri turned his iron gaze onto the mercenary, making it perfectly clear that the next time the man spoke to him the assassin would end the mercenary's life. The man had lost to the assassin's stare with his compatriots and could by no means hold up against it alone. The mercenary looked away, but said nothing else as he turned and headed for the wagon.

"Who is this mysterious woman, Narbeli?" Jarlaxle chuckled as they followed the cowed man. He wanted to retrieve his portable hole, but knew he would first require help removing the centaur, who was undoubtedly awaiting his fate in wild frustration.

"She's Casteja Vektch's representative to the Emerald Coalition," she began, triggering an intrigued look between Entreri and Jarlaxle, "if she's involved—"

Shir's voice caught abruptly as two of the draft horses that had been securely hitched to the damaged wagon screamed, reared, and fell kicking on the ground. Each one had sprouted a crossbow bolt in their bulky chests. The two horses that remained unmolested were sturdy beasts, but the smell of equine death permeating the area combined with the death throes of their fellows put them over the edge. They began squealing and bucking in place, trying to escape the harnesses keeping them attached to the wagon and their dying team mates. The seizing beasts on the ground did nothing to help, their pink foaming mouths spread terrifying smells every which way.

"As you said, black elf!" The ranger exclaimed, noting that the two lead horses had been struck from opposing sides. Jarlaxle didn't answer as he and Entreri were busy throwing themselves into the close cover under the shuddering wagon.

The two came up near one another and began to scan the trees and surrounding forest. A second attack came as they were looking around for their attackers. A volley of six arrows, all coming in from a semi-circle in the trees ahead of them, struck with deadly accuracy. Three of the mercenaries were hit, though none of the injuries were of a critical nature, the uninjured merchant was taken square in the eye, ending his life without so much as a whimper leaving his lips. Another struck Entreri's shoulder with bruising force, puncturing his leather shirt but bouncing off his body thanks to his black shirt. To his side he heard Jarlaxle swear in Drow. He glanced to the side to see the dark elf pulling his hat off an arrow that had pinned it to the ground. The drow was glaring at a hole puncturing the wide brim.

"I'm going to kill them slowly," Jarlaxle muttered, his lip curling in rarely seen anger as he replaced the hat. To their relief a new volley of arrows did not come on the back of the first. Instead, one of their attackers yelled from the cover of the woods.

"Hail, the caravan; allies of Eles Wianar, despot of Arrabar!"

All the mercenaries, including Jarlaxle and Entreri, began to listen closely, intent on discovering the location of the speaker in order to find and slaughter him. "We allow you the opportunity to take your weapons and leave or stand and die; according to your wishes. We also demand the immediate release of your innocent centaur captive that he may return to his tribe. You have three minutes in which to confer."

"We have your word on a three minute ceasefire?" One of the mercenaries yelled back, his face flushed and angry.

"You have my word," came the reply. In response to this promise, the mercenaries, as far as they were able, came out from under cover to crouch together beside the caravan.

Entreri and Jarlaxle observed the mercenaries with thinly veiled amazement. The two of them were convinced the Chondathan mercenaries were either possessed of an unpredictable naiveté or had taken leave of their senses. When the two remained under the wagon for a moment longer Shir, who had hit the dirt behind them, motioned them to come out.

"The only thing that keeps a land from descending into chaos is strict adherence to one's word," she explained as the two slowly left the cover of the wagon.

Feeling utterly exposed, Jarlaxle and Entreri joined the mercenaries in the open to discuss their options. The assassin hated the feeling, the space between his shoulder blades itched in anticipation of the first blow.

"How many are they?" One mercenary asked quickly.

"At least seven, in a wide range of positions," Entreri commented, "at least two on the ground for them to attack the two of us while under the wagon."

"Narbeli might be with them," Shir whispered, shielding her mouth lest their attackers read her lips. The comment brought a few remarkably vile curses into the tense atmosphere between the group.

"What's in the wagon?" This question came from continually plotting Jarlaxle and was aimed back at the head of the wagon where the remaining merchant was paralyzed, staring at his dead partner. The man didn't seem to hear Jarlaxle at all.

Shir snapped her fingers in recognition of Jarlaxle's leap of logic. "Of course! That's why the centaurs wanted the horses!"

Entreri had come to the same conclusion, though the dark elf had voiced the thought first. Had not the schemer mentioned his suspicions about the cargo from the very start? With little time and less patience, the assassin seized the merchant and dragged him over to the group. "What's in the wagon?"

Eyes showing white all the way around, the merchant shook his head briefly at the grim faces surrounding him. "Tea, cooking spices, and some medicinal herbs," the man insisted, though his quaking voice betrayed him.

Jarlaxle's uncovered red eye glanced at the assassin directly. "Did you notice anything strange inside the wagon when you liberated the lemon peel yesterday?"

"You stole from our supplies?" the pale merchant gasped, incredulous. The scandalized expression he shot the assassin was ineffective against Entreri's complete lack of shame, though the curious looks among the rest of the mercenaries came as a momentary surprise to him.

"He knows how to cook?" Shir asked Jarlaxle, her guarded mien at odds with her look of intrigued shock.

"Our bones are about to dull a half score arrows," the assassin snarled incredulously, "and you are worrying about missing lemon peel?"

Jarlaxle choked back a laugh at the bizarre turn the interrogation had taken. It seemed skimming off the top and basic culinary skills were not mercenary fare. "Ladies and gentlemen, let us not forget we are standing at the proverbial threshold of certain doom."

Impatient and irritated, Entreri turned to his most reliable means of interrogation. He seized his beautifully crafted dagger and pressed it against the merchant's neck. It was likely the assassin had no need to slice a thin line into the man's skin to make him talk, but it was all he needed in order to coax his dagger into drawing hard on the man's life force.

The mercenaries stared in bewilderment at the merchant's sudden shuddering gasp and the terror breaking across his not unhandsome features, especially when he began to stammer incoherently. They had no idea how Entreri had cowed the man into such a strong display, though Jarlaxle surely understood and silently applauded the assassin's choice.

"Supplies!" The merchant cried, his whole body no longer shuddering, but straightening under Entreri's hard grip. The assassin noted with dark satisfaction that the pain infusing his shoulder faded almost instantaneously thanks to his dagger's vampiric properties. "Supplies for General Ashrei's troops!"

A collective sigh issued from the gathered mercenaries at this statement. Quick thinking Shir turned toward the wood and asked loudly if they could have one more minute. Agreement was returned, from a different location than before. Again, all eyes turned back to the merchant.

One of the mercenaries shook his had slowly. "You paid us to protect you and your wagon until we arrived at your destination. We'll fight to the last to do that, but that could mean the lot of us will die here in fulfillment of the agreement. I advise you to consider dropping protection of the wagon."

The injured merchant started to nod, but remembered Entreri's hungry dagger jabbing his throat and whispered instead. "I agree, but please start by protecting me from the man about to kill me."

The mercenary glanced at Entreri. "He's not going to kill you; he gave his word to protect you the day he signed on."

Jarlaxle suppressed a pained expression, while Entreri released the merchant in disgust. He was no Chondathan, binding himself with useless oaths, though the way Shir had presented the idea held a certain appeal. Entreri normally kept his word, but only with individuals he respected; he held no respect for the merchant. And if that word got in his way, he was inclined to disregard it leaving no witnesses to sat he had done otherwise.

The mercenary that had spoken to the merchant turned to the wood and raised his voice. "We're taking the horses and leaving."

In response there was a rustling of brush as six bandits came out of the wood onto the road. Not one held a bow in their hands; leading the mercenaries to believe there were several archers in the wood with arrows trained on them.

Jarlaxle looked the bandits over in open curiosity, while Entreri studied the surrounding trees for indication of their back up. "Could you talk them into taking us to Vektch?" Entreri asked in drow.

"I doubt it, but if we call in Jaka," the dark elf mused thoughtfully, "he could plant the idea in their leader's mind. I say we follow them at our earliest convenience until we get close to Casteja's position."

As much as Entreri disliked the idea of bringing in the young drow, he nodded minutely. "Agreed."

Two of the bandits climbed into the back of the wagon and began tearing it apart, apparently looking for something in particular, while the remaining four directed the two uninjured mercenaries, Jarlaxle and Entreri to help extract the centaur from the portable hole. It took them the better part of an hour to pull the unfortunate creature from the pit. The centaur was in good spirits by the time it was released as was curious Jarlaxle who had actually done quite a bit of work in order to get close to the beast. It was a testament to the drow's ingenious charm that before the centaur trotted off, he was happily answering Jarlaxle's question on centaur ecology.

In fact, if it weren't for the centaur's insistence, the Chondathan Liberation Force would have been richer by one portable hole. They gave the centaur the item and the centaur returned it to Jarlaxle with one of the beast's jeweled earrings as interest. Entreri rolled his eye as the incorrigible dark elf gave the centaur one of his necklaces in trade.

When the beast left Entreri marked a line on an imaginary board with his index finger. "Chalk up another follower in Jarlaxle's cult of personality."

"Don't be jealous," the drow sighed, admiring the glint of sunlight on the heavy gold earring's jade drop and bristling carnelians. "Your position as my high priest will never be in question."

"Only because I'll never occupy it," the assassin retorted, turning away to gather their horses.

As soon as the mercenaries were alone, they came together again to discuss their options. Oddly enough, while the uninjured members of the group had helped free the centaur from the pit, the injured members had received medical aid from the so-called bandits on top of Jarlaxle's work to stabilize them.

While receiving aid, they had discovered what the merchants had been concealing from them the whole time; there had been a case of healing draughts stashed in the wagon. This prompted a dramatic sigh from Jarlaxle and a look at Entreri that was slightly more eloquent than a verbal I-told-you-so. The assassin shrugged in response. "If you were a better fighter you wouldn't need them so much."

Disgruntled and complaining silently, the mercenaries convinced the remaining merchant to abandon his damaged wagon and return to Shamph. The man offered little resistance, involved with the shock of losing his business partner. While the group took turns digging a grave for the dead man, Jarlaxle and Entreri had a heated discussion in drow about how to follow the Chondathan Liberation Force's group back to Vektch rather than an Arrabar army.

The point of contention centered on the certainty that the other group was traveling through the wood on foot. He hated to admit the dark elf had a point, but Entreri relented to the obvious: he would have to give up the horses and lose the hefty deposit he had put down to rent them. Only one consideration alleviated his growing ire as he headed for the mercenaries with the horses' reins in his hands; Shir's explanation about Chondathan's keeping their word.

Since the mercenaries had lost two horses and the draft horses weren't suitable for riding, he told them he would loan them the horses on the condition they would swear to return them to the establishment where he had found them in the first place. The group was curious where Jarlaxle and Entreri planned to go in the wood without horses, but opted to remain blissfully ignorant. With their word and a nod of thanks from the ranger, Entreri strode forward with a smug Jarlaxle.

The two headed into the woods with Entreri at the lead, easily finding their quarry's trail and following it from a safe distance. It didn't take long before they realized the bandits had played a trick on them when they had been with the mercenaries: there was only proof of seven bandits heading through the wood in front of them. There had never been more than seven of them unless the six mystery archers had left in a completely different direction. They figured the one the bandit they had not seen could have been the woman, Narbeli, but neither thought it likely if she was a valuable representative.

Cool air currents began to stir the moist air stagnating underneath the oppressive heat by late afternoon. Tufts from cottonwood trees filled the air with the rising wind as the wood grew far darker than the thick canopy could account for. Rain was a forgone conclusion, a promise that went forth on the back of the swirling breeze. The few gaps in the swaying forest ceiling revealed the slate bellies of ominous rain clouds.

"We'll need the tailor soon if we want to keep pace," Entreri said grudgingly. "Assuming he can follow them with his mind powers. They're running parallel to the road. If they decide to walk on the road for a time in the rain and then leave it, it will be nearly impossible to discern their path. I'm willing to bet they have one or more rangers with them; they're likely to notice they're being followed if we keep them in sight."

Jarlaxle nodded, drawing a silver whistle out of his vest. The assassin studied it closely, marking that it was identical to the whistle Jaka had produced to call Kimmuriel, but not the same one that Jarlaxle used to enact useful magical silences. "He can follow them as long as we keep them in his range, which shouldn't be difficult."

Early evening was upon them and thunder rolled from one end of the sky to the other. The rain had not yet begun to fall, but it smelled imminent when they stopped to use the whistle. It was half an hour before the familiar blue screen of Kimmuriel Oblodra's dimensional doorway opened onto the wood, a comfortable distance from Jarlaxle. The only comfortable distance away from Entreri, as far as he was concerned, was out of sight and ear shot.

It was well lit within the room Kimmuriel stood within. The warm amber glow of a multitude of candles lit the place, backlighting the two slim figures at its edge. The orange light contrasted sharply with the blue gray gloom of the forest's stormy evening making the chamber appear much more inviting than the wood.

As comfortable as the room looked, Kimmuriel's body language was anything but comfortable or inviting. He stood with arms crossed over his thin chest, fingers drumming on his silk clad biceps. Slightly behind and to the left of the unknowable dark elf stood the slender Jaka, looking almost like a three dimensional shadow but for his eyes.

Entreri was amused when a gust of rain-scented wind blew up, guttering and extinguishing the candles within the room, pitching it instantly into inky blackness. He spared no love for anyone, least of all the Oblodran. If the male was less visible, all the better for the assassin.

"Ah, Kimmuriel," Jarlaxle greeted his former lieutenant in his native tongue. "And Jaka Mi'iduor; a pleasure as always. Artemis and I will have him back to you within a tenday."

Though more at home in the evening light, Kimmuriel wore a sour expression. Jaka wore no expression at all, but kept his face respectfully averted. "I don't care if you get him back to me in a tenday; get him back to his House in less."

As Kimmuriel spoke, the dark elf in question stepped through the portal. Entreri noted that the tailor's clothes were not what he would expect from a dark elf of that profession. His clothes, though all of black, bordered on plain, but were not as typical as Entreri had first thought. A flash of lightning, which brought Jaka's arms up and crossing before him in surprise, revealed textures and patterns lost in the darkness. His piwafwi was of wooly silk, his high boots of leather, his long, loosely belted tunic, slit high above his thighs, was of a coarse silk with little more than a dull sheen. The only deviation from his monochromatic image was the pale yellow hue of his eyes.

His first steps were cautious, as if he didn't quite trust the ground he was coming into contact with. The behavior set off a warning at the back of Entreri's mind. Was the drow disoriented by the long distance the dimension door had sent him, or was it that the tailor had never set foot on the surface before? Or, perhaps, the sunlight filtering through the trees and descending clouds was causing him problems.

"We'll take excellent care of your treasured pupil," Jarlaxle assured Kimmuriel, smiling broadly. The mercenary had taken off his wide brimmed hat and was twirling it around on two fingers, seeming at great ease. "Have you any special instructions for his feeding and care?"

Entreri snorted at the question and wished for the thousandth time Jarlaxle would simply end his banter so he wouldn't have to be exposed to the sight of hated Kimmuriel a moment longer. It was bad enough they had the drow's apparent protégé.

Kimmuriel rolled his dark red eyes, hardly reassured by Jarlaxle's infamous grin or the assassin's presence. "He survived traveling hundreds of miles in the Underdark from his volcanic city to Menzoberranzan; he'll be fine."

Chuckling outright, Jarlaxle nodded and waved his hand in a casual gesture of dismissal. Kimmuriel paused only to send a disdainful Entreri's way and to glance at the young drow standing next to the portal. The lad shook his head in response to the psionicist's look, obviously answering some silent question, and then the portal blinked out of existence. The group was left to the roaring wind, rustling leaves, and the first heavy drops of rain.

Not one to mince words, Entreri voiced his main concern with characteristic bluntness. "Have you been to the surface before?"

Jaka's gaze drifted slightly to the left, indicating a damning hesitation while he considered his answer. "Yes."

Entreri was no mind reader, but the telltale signs of a dodge were familiar to him. He didn't doubt the tailor's honesty with Jarlaxle standing beside him; but he knew the laconic answer wasn't the whole truth. "Physically?"

Pale eyes drifted up and settled with bland intensity on Entreri's ironclad stare. The assassin detected a hint of accusation in the look; no drow liked being caught in a deception. "No."

Drawing the hood of his cloak over his head to shield from the rain, Entreri shot Jarlaxle an irritated look that made his feelings apparent. He didn't like Kimmuriel, he didn't like having to trust the psionicist's pupil, and he did not particularly like Jarlaxle just then, either. Turning on his heel, the assassin again headed deeper into the great and mysterious wood.

As they followed their quarry's trail, Jarlaxle let the man fume; sooner or later he knew Entreri would resign himself to the situation. Perhaps he would have never stood for the addition of a psychic 'bodyguard' a year prior, but Artemis Entreri was evolving and that was just one of the many things he so enjoyed about the assassin's company.


	5. war is kind, part the second

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer. Not only am I not making money, I'm actually giving up social life, other pursuits, dating, and a lot of sleep. All I'm gaining is weight.

Author's mindless chittering: _Last chapter had a few errors which have since been corrected. Also, forgot to thank Neven for providing me highly detailed info on Chondath. This chapter is 1K words longer than I originally intended because there was such an interest in Jaka; I decided to let him share the spotlight for a bit. (And please forgive me for using 'pig latin' in this chapter; it was a moment of extreme weakness.)_

* * *

_Swift blazing flag of the regiment,  
__Eagle with crest of red and gold,  
__These men were born to drill and die.  
__Point for them the virtue of slaughter,  
__Make plain to them the excellence of killing  
__And a field where a thousand corpses lie._

-Stephen Crane, _War is Kind_

_in the flat field_

Unlike Charon's Claw, Entreri's jeweled dagger was highly reflective. In the dark of the night, the assassin had found this could present a problem; all it took was a misplaced flash from the large moon to tip off spectators to his dark work. Conversely, on the rare occasions he found himself working with another, such as Jarlaxle, the reflective surface could be used to catch rays from the sun or moon to convey a signal. In a pinch, he could even use the dagger as a mirror to glance behind him.

On one side of the dagger, the jeweled dagger had captured the image of Entreri's intense cold gray eyes. On the other side, a pair of blasé yellow eyes stared back in the opposite direction. Drops of blood were scattered across the blade and black skinned face and quickly washed away by the pervasive downpour. Slightly pink drops of diluted blood dripped from a smooth chin.

It was their second day of following the bandits, making it almost seven days since Jarlaxle and Entreri had stepped off the boat in Iljak and began on their self-imposed mission to capture Casteja Vektch. They had come a long way, trading insults as they were wont to do. Not only did they have an idea of where the man was located, but they had a direct line before them through following the bandits they had run into on the road through Chondalwood. Additionally, they had a new tool at their disposal: the laconic Jaka Mi'iduor who could implant and engrave an invitation in the mind of the bandit closest to Casteja.

Entreri had many reservations about the young drow, despite Jarlaxle's failure to draw him into conversation on any topic other than the local flora and fauna. To the lad's credit, he stubbornly refused to have anything to do with Jarlaxle's outrageous garb, even refusing to attempt patching the monstrous purple hat. On that count, Jaka had nearly warmed the assassin's bitter heart.

The rain had not let up for more than a few hours at a time since it began. Were Entreri not worried about the possibility of flooding, he might have hoped for the downpour to continue. He understood the oppressive humidity they had experienced before the rain would pale in comparison when next the sun revealed itself.

The rain had come with the night and new recruit. It began as a steady downpour that drowned small animals and noise alike and remained throughout the following days in various incarnations of density and wildness.

Their clothes were proof against much of the rain, but over time the moisture encroached beyond the travelers' many precautions. The hole in Jarlaxle's hat, for example, had guided water around his neck and down his back to soak the inside of his vest and slide against his black shirt. On Jaka's first day above ground, the solemn drow looked around with such interest that he failed to notice a tree root and tumbled straight into deep standing water. He had almost triggered the _breathe water_ spell on his house insignia. The only one of them almost completely unaffected by the rain was Entreri who had the experience to know better and the preference for functionality that kept him prepared against even the elements.

The assassin found the lad quite curious for such a soft spoken creature. More than once, Entreri had caught him examining animals caught with his mental power. On one occasion, Jaka had been involved in plucking feather off one of the forest's jewel-toned birds before releasing its mind and letting it leave in a burst of panic and pain. The latest incident was less morbidly innocent.

"It is dead," Jaka remarked needlessly in his uniquely accented version of the common tongue, finally tearing his eyes from the dagger and the serpent pinned to the tree.

"No more specimens," Entreri warned the young drow. "Keep this up and Jarlaxle will have you cooking more of your catches with your mind power. Collect things after the mission, not a moment sooner."

Standing as close to the drow as he was, Entreri noticed Jaka's eyelashes were the same color as his hair. Previous in the rain-filled journey, he had realized the lad's fingernails were black, as if he had painted them to match what he assumed was dyed hair. It didn't take long for him to see the boy's teeth were yet another homage to unremitting blackness.

When he had asked Jarlaxle about the psionicist's odd coloration, the mercenary had stated that the lad's bones were the same. All drow from the boy's extinct volcanic city had become that way as part of their adaptation to the poisonous habitat. The drawback, he explained, was poor infravision; long term exposure to extreme heat was hard on heat sensitive vision. Molten rock, fire, and the like had lit the city of Ilchathm, in both meanings of the term.

"I advise you to make that an order," the young male commented flatly, obviously chafing badly under Entreri's typical commanding language and tone. Jaka was no different from many drow, but possessed of a penchant to view all nondrow as potential skin-bearing herd animals alongside the normal racism. There was a curious lack or arrogance for all that and the way the lad refused many of Jarlaxle's outrageous requests kept the assassin from hating Jaka outright.

The assassin narrowed his eyes, glaring at the shorter male with an impressive amount of frigid intensity. He wrenched the dagger from the tree and the huge tree snake's body, dropping the bleeding creature to the ground where it splashed bloody water up Jaka's legs. "If you can handle Kimmuriel's insufferable attitude, you can deal with mine as well."

The lad averted his face from Entreri, at first shocking the assassin into thinking the drow was giving him the show of respect he normally gave Jarlaxle. Then he saw the lad's yellow gaze was actually traveling up from the blood running down his boots to the rain diluted blood on his water resistant piwafwi. The assassin restrained a wicked smirk and turned abruptly to join Jarlaxle.

Entreri listened for the sound of barely audible splashing behind him; the telltale sounds of Jaka's steps. The lad was a quiet as he could be, but he didn't have Entreri's training or Jarlaxle's magical boots. He was confident in the boy's tread when he found Jarlaxle waiting for them in the relative shelter of a pine found at the edge of the wood.

Earlier in the morning, Jaka had led them out of the forest, having followed the bandits off the road and along the tree line. According to what Entreri had memorized of the map he had looked over in Iljak, they were heading for the wetlands and rice fields near the Arran River. The stray thoughts Jaka had picked up from the seven militants were mainly concerns about massive conflicts raging through the area.

"I found him about to become lizard food," the assassin reported, joining the mercenary near the pine's trunk. "Are you certain he should continue to learn about the bandits before implanting that suggestion?"

Jarlaxle nodded and took his hat off to knock rain from the brim and shake off the diatryma feather. "The better he knows their minds, the easier it will be for him to implant suggestions without getting caught. Think of it as casing a mark's home before breaking into it. However, the time is quite near at hand; take a look at what the fog revealed."

Entreri followed the dark elf's instruction and looked out over the vast fields of farmland to the far off structures where the locals made their residence and housed their farming equipment. Most of the structures were humble domiciles and barns made of sturdy wood taken from the forest and stones found whilst tilling their fields. In the rain the houses were brown or gray, depending on the age and type of lumber used.

All the houses the assassin could see, among the faded ground fog and gray veil of rain, were blackened ruins.

Somewhat perplexed, Entreri presented his hand, palm up, to the dark elf. His silent request was transparent enough and quickly filled. Jarlaxle reached into a belt pouch and withdrew a brass cylinder. He dropped the thing nonchalantly into the assassin's demanding grip. "Don't smudge the lenses."

Entreri ignored the comment and opened up the spyglass in order to take a closer look at the distant farm houses. He was careful to avoid the water dripping from the hem of his cloak's hood and the large drops that spattered around them from the pine's branches and needles. What he saw did not shock or horrify him; he was a man well-used to the sight of death and atrocity, if not the occasional participation in such.

The farm house and barn had been put to torch with most of the inhabitants pinned to the outside walls by their farming implements. The corpses were so blackened and ruined by fire that Entreri could not tell which were male or female or even their relative age. He counted fifteen corpses still affixed to the barn's outer wall by scythe, tiller blade, pitch fork, or other pointed objects. The majority of corpses were tall and their remains were understandable the worst charred. It was the shorter, child-sized, corpses that were the least damaged by the fire, for all their soft upper bodies had been nearly all consumed.

A sneer slowly pulled back Entreri's lips as he continued to investigate the scene. The farm animals had been slaughtered and were lying where they had fallen, bodies beginning to bloat from a build up of gases in their internal organs.

"Recent," the assassin stated. "The rain is keeping the scent of death down, so the animals from the wood haven't found the bodies yet. I don't see any signs of scavenging beyond a few crows. "

"I can't imagine it was orcs," Jarlaxle reasoned calmly; he had already gone through every possible scenario, but he allowed Entreri to put the puzzle together himself.

Continuing to observe the scene, the assassin saw quite a bit of the field had been trampled. He noted dead horses and bulls, but few dead cows. The chicken coop was also burned, though many of the birds had escaped the inferno and were wandering their cage. The lack of cows tipped him off. "They've taken the cows as supplies. Vektch's work or General Ashrei's?"

Jarlaxle smiled over Entreri's shoulder at Jaka's curious expression; he was satisfied the young drow was present to hear the assassin's swift pronouncement of the situation. "At least one division of Ashrei's army. I'm satisfied that Casteja's popularity stems from keeping excellent relations with the common people. If this was his work it would work against him."

Casting a mischievous glance at Jaka, the mercenary added, "When we leave here, run over there and fetch us some of the bird eggs; the farmers certainly have no further use for them."

Feigning ignorance of Jarlaxle's order, the assassin lowered the spyglass, snapping it shut with an air of finality. He handed it back to Jarlaxle without turning his dark gaze from the far off atrocity. "They were stupid to get involved," he stated coldly.

The dark elf stowed the spyglass, a mysterious look on his face. "Swift is the judgment of the hired hand! What makes you think they had anything to do with Casteja's people? Armies crawl on their bellies; they probably missed fresh meat. And eggs."

Entreri shrugged, disinclined to continue the conversation. "How will they eat if they kill all their farmers? Now we see the bandits were right to worry about militants in the area." He didn't care about the farmers, either set of soldiers, or the bloated corpses of blameless animals. He began to walk on from the fragrant pine tree, heading along the unseen trail Jaka continually updated them on, following the bandits to their ultimate quarry.

"They were trying to inspire fear," Jaka said, only heading forward when Jarlaxle ducked out from under the pine's shelter. "When other humans find out about the destruction, they will not stand in the way."

Jarlaxle did not dismiss the lad's notion; it was the knee-jerk extrapolation of any drow. Fear and intimidation were the main weapons in every dark elf's extensive psychological arsenal. "Or perhaps this is just what happens when the armies from Arrabar are denied the fresh meat they desire? Or do they think all peasants are aligned with Casteja? If it is the latter, I think I would leave the countryside, but either way Casteja is the only beneficiary."

"Even the peasants in Chondath know how to fight," Entreri returned. "Half of them or more are retired mercenaries, settling down to raise the next generation. They're not the type to let anyone get away with making demands on their land or livestock. Still, it hardly matters."

It was with that pronouncement Entreri found Jarlaxle's sly reasoning. He snorted and glanced over his cloaked shoulder at the knowing smile on the dark elf's face. "I see it now. Arrabar is wiping out the farmers to feed the army in the short run and because he wants to take out a valuable source of Vektch's support. The young farmers come trained to fight and they're already predisposed to be grateful to Vektch because of his work to help their families after the last war. Wianar must see all the peasants as potential enemies."

Jarlaxle nodded, smiling deviously. "This plays into Casteja's hands. Wianar makes the peasants into enemies with this kind of behavior. Ashrei is simply thinking a display of power will move them into her favor through intimidation. Casteja doesn't have to defend the farmers in order to win them over now. They will side with him in opposition to the government in Arrabar."

"Shouldn't they side with Arrabar?" Jaka asked, his head cocked slightly to the side within his piwafwi's cowl. "Isn't Arrabar much stronger than the bandit's forces?"

A _tsk_ing noise heralded Jarlaxle's amused response. "You're thinking like a drow. These humans don't understand their own people. This might be a land of mercenaries who are usually quite easy to be bought, but they're smart enough to know that if enough of them side with Casteja, the Shining Lord of Arrabar can be taken down. And Casteja's staying power is more than enough to inspire them to do so."

Following Jarlaxle's logic was sometimes difficult with his capacity to lay down several lines of reasoning all at once, but Entreri understood well enough. He shook his head, always impressed with the dark elf's ability to get into the minds of his opponents and calmly plot their moves. It was no wonder the drow male had been able to build himself an empire amid the darkness of Menzoberranzan's fanatical priestesses. He always knew what every player wanted before they wanted it; often inspiring those desires through ingenious stratagems. Additionally, the strength of his personal charisma and empathy was such that he drew in followers by droves.

The male was, indeed, the epitome of the perfect charismatic leader. Thinking back to the day the centaurs attacked, he recalled his own statement about the dark elf's cult of personality. Was even cold-hearted Entreri a victim? The assassin smirked at the thought, realizing that even if he was, Jarlaxle was just as much a victim; such consummate extraverts could not bear life alone. In that, he decided, the two of them were on equal footing.

Inclined to be amused despite the grim situation, both Jarlaxle and Entreri smirked slightly when they heard Jaka's soft splashing footsteps as he bounded through the rain. They turned their heads to watch the slim black shadow slip through myriad transparent veils of rain toward the farm house to fill Jarlaxle's request. No matter the youth's somber attitude, he moved with the effortless enthusiasm and grace indicative of all young adults; humanoid or otherwise.

"Did you choose him just to make me more aware of my age?" Entreri asked, feeling a certain amount of unprofessional envy.

"I'm not so cruel," Jarlaxle returned with a laugh, "at least not to my friends. I chose him because he is both more available and more expendable than Kimmuriel. His city's culture ingrained in him a high respect for teamwork, which will cause him to support us despite risks to his own life. When he deems the risks too great, he will abandon or betray us in order to secure his own survival."

Entreri took the information stoically, without making any judgments. "What you're saying is that you chose him because he's expendable and like-minded."

Casting the human fighter a wicked smile, Jarlaxle agreed with a brief comment. "You catch on quickly."

It was afternoon when they stopped to allow Jaka time to look in on the group's progress. The lad sank down to his knees in the tall grass to center himself and concentrate on locating the bandits again. The omnipresent grass bowed all around him under the weight of the rain water an organic cage of sparkling green glass. Ground water came up over his shins as he knelt, sinking slightly into the spongy earth.

Jarlaxle and Entreri listened attentively for the boy's voice as he worked with his mind's eye to find and report on their quarry. His voice was always quiet, but even more so in trance. In the subdued roar of the spring rainstorm his words were almost indiscernible.

Entreri watched Jaka's closed eyes closely; he had noticed that when the young drow performed searches his eyes moved under his eyelids as if in deep sleep. When he found the bandits, his eyes would cease the rapid movement.

"I have them," the boy whispered in drow, his lips barely moving. "They have come to a stop at a burned structure. It continues to smolder."

Jarlaxle and Entreri exchanged interested looks before the older drow asked, "Have you contacted any of their minds enough to build a stable link?"

The lad nodded minutely, "Shall I implant the suggestion while they are distracted?"

Jarlaxle nodded back, momentarily forgetting Jaka was not looking at him. "Yes and try to get a sense of what your target is thinking while you're at it."

While the boy did his work, Entreri switched between keeping an eye on their surroundings and watching the lad's unguarded face. During the Jaka's previous mental scouting mission, the assassin had tested his black and red gauntlet by running it through the air near the lad. He had made certain Jarlaxle's face was averted, of course. Jaka's face had remained utterly impassive throughout the experiment, making it clear the glove had no effect on his mind power. The assassin was disappointed, but he wasn't the type to give up easily.

As the assassin looked toward the tree line for a third time, he saw Jaka's lips thin in a frown followed by a subtle flinch. Gaze drawn back to the psionicist, he caught an intrigued look from Jarlaxle's uncovered red eye. Something was obviously not going according to plan.

A moment later, the lad's eyes were open and he seemed to deflate from his rigid posture into a slumped position. His face was typically unreadable. "He felt my intrusion."

A curse fortunately foreign to Jaka hissed between Entreri's teeth while Jarlaxle calmly asked; "Did you cover for it?"

Jaka shook his head just enough to spill rain water from his piwafwi's generous gathers of soft, wooly silk. "No, he did."

Both assassin and drow mercenary found the boy's comment beyond noteworthy. How or why would a psionic victim cover the intrusion without prompting from the offending psionicist?

Though the young male often needed prompting to explain himself, he began to speak freely. "He thought I was somebody named Vritra. He was scared, but that's nothing out of the ordinary; most creatures have an irrational fear of mind powers. I used his surprise and fear as cover to send the impulse deeply into his psyche; he suspects nothing. He also relayed information to me." Jaka shook his head again, but this time in subdued confusion.

"He wanted me— Vritra to tell Casteja that they have the potions of healing and… a spice called cumin." Yellow eyes glanced up at a chuckling Jarlaxle. "Is he a wizard? What spell requires this cumin? Is it dangerous?"

The question, asked with such serious earnestness proved too much for an already amused Jarlaxle. The dark elf's chuckle grew into a full laugh. Unimpressed, Entreri glared murderously at the wet grass, which failed to wither or dry despite the heated intensity of his ire. "I fail to find the joke in this. First I have drow sprouting from every point conceivable, now psionicists. If the gods do bother with us at all, they have an unimpressive lack of imagination."

"Then it must be the surface deities," Jaka murmured, if anything, the lad seemed to shrink in on himself with the comment, "for the great lady Lolth's creativity and imagination cannot be equaled."

The assassin rolled his eyes, about to make some very unkind remarks about deities in general and the Spider Queen in specific when Jarlaxle preempted him by slapping the lad's shoulder with great gusto. "You've done well, Master Mi'iduor! Kimmuriel should be pleased to hear how useful you have been."

Jaka did not expect the forceful, if good natured, attack; he rocked forward under the blow. He was saved sprawling face first in the grass by thrusting his hands forward, bracing himself wrist-deep in mud. Uninsulted and unphased, he pushed up from the ground, shaking off mud and grass from his slender hands.

"Ixnay on the Olthlay," Jarlaxle snorted under his breath for Entreri's benefit, using the silly language modification many human children preferred for telling their ridiculous secrets. Entreri didn't know where the dark elf had learned it. They found it undeniably effective the first two or three times used on a non-native speaker but it never ceased to disgust or amuse the human fighter. This time he went with disgust. Considering the need to keep Jaka around and interested in his well-being, Entreri let the opportunity for blaspheming pass over.

While the lad cleaned his hands in the wet grass, Jarlaxle began a new line of questioning. "What else did you get out of the man?"

The lad's answers came steadily and with the strict efficiency Entreri appreciated. "His name is Tan; he's a cleric of Chauntea and one of Vektch's leaders. He was supposed to provide blessings to many of the fields along the way, but has decided to let things stay the way they are to acerbate the farmers' anger. He's greatly annoyed with a faerie called Narbeli; he thinks she's causing them problems with an Emerald Coalition because of a relationship with Vektch."

"Really! A lover's quarrel?" Jarlaxle was typical in his interest in matters of the romantic. Entreri had to restrain himself from gritting his teeth in impatience. "I knew a man with such a handsome face had to be the sort that toyed with hearts. It is a wonder you haven't left miles of pining women behind you, too, Artemis."

"And why no one mourns your departure from every town we encounter," Entreri replied, though his heart wasn't in the insult. He was much more interested in the issues at hand that affected him the most. "What of this Vritra? What else did you learn of them?"

"I sensed a tendency to think of Vritra as male." The young dark elf straightened up from cleaning his hands and looked at Jarlaxle, his body language as formal as when Kimmuriel brought him two days prior. "I'll need to meditate before we meet Casteja; I'll need to be as mentally prepared as possible. If possible, I would like to have an hour and a half of sleep instead of Reverie."

Jarlaxle cast a quizzical look at the boy. "Is that it? Do you believe we'll find the bandit encampment so soon?"

As vague and difficult to read as Jaka's face could be, he could not restrain himself from biting his lower lip at Jarlaxle's question. Entreri read the look as slight embarrassment or consternation. "I did not mention the conflict?"

A pair of rolled eyes and an amused smirk was all the answer the young drow needed. "The burned out structure is providing them some cover and a better view than the tree line while they observe a battle. The battlefield is huge, flat, and muddy. Arrabar's forces can't bring their ballista to bear because of the mud. Their horse riders are held back and the remaining foot soldiers are up to their shins in muck while bandit slingers and archers pepper them from across the river. The bandits we're following plan to slip into the tree line, cross the river, and fall back deep in the wood near a pagan shrine."

The information supplied Jarlaxle's swift mind a plan of action appropriate to the situation. He simultaneously noted Jaka's choice of wording was typical in its drow nature. Who else but Underdark denizens would refer to a wetland area as flat? All wetlands were flat, it was the nature of an area where water had ineffective drainage (doubtless where all the horrid insects came from). And who else would refer to cavalry as horse riders? It was quaint, almost cute.

Such details were unimportant to Entreri; he was working on the psionicist angle and the conflict simultaneously. They had planned the capture of Vektch carefully two night previous, but Entreri knew his partner was one to trust in improvisation. Unplanned elements did not worry the assassin, but the thought of Jaka's workload suddenly doubling did not set well with him. For a moment he wondered if it would take anything less than a life-and-death struggle with Jarlaxle to seize his protective eye patch.

Opting to take up cover near the tree line, the small group got underway. As they walked, the rain finally let up and the sky brightened though the clouds didn't immediately burn off. The result was a muggy atmosphere that grew unbearable when the sun came through the clouds in the early afternoon.

The initial burst of sunlight on the saturated fields elicited a full body cringe from their tailor. The lad reacted to the bright light as he did the lightning the first night; his arms instinctually crossed in front of his face for protection. The lad's yellow eyes squinted against the direct rays as well as the millions of refractions from trembling drops of moisture hanging onto grass, leaf, and bough alike.

As if the blinding light was not enough, the heat that came with the sun began to evaporate the rain at an incredible rate, quickly filling the land with a thick and torturous haze. Jarlaxle found this even less enjoyable than the mosquitoes that continued to bother him despite the Calishite garlic remedy. With the rain the insects had been less numerous, but without it in a wetland area he realized they would be worse than ever. There was standing water on all sides.

Their clothes began to dry in the sun, but their skin quickly became damp from humidity and glistened in the light like the fading drops of crystalline rain. The three of them lost no time losing what layers they felt they could do without. Entreri removed his cloak, both his leather shirt and the sleeves of the shirt Jaka had sewn for him. Jaka's tunic was already sleeveless and he had no intention of removing his protective piwafwi, but he managed to fold his high boots down and his leggings up to his thighs where straps and simple double ring buckles were waiting to hold the modification in place.

Convertible garments made great sense to Entreri, but he was neither young enough nor drow enough to fancy showing an excess of skin in dangerous territory. It wasn't modesty, of which he no use, but nagging common sense. He glanced at Jarlaxle, who was trying to roll up his shirt to expose his stomach again, and decided showing skin in hostile environs was a decided dark elven thing to do; he almost put his leathers and cloak back on.

He was satisfied that the drow had no apparent advantage in the miserable weather. Sweat and beaded humidity rolled down necks and foreheads equally and dripped, stinging, into their eyes. In the assassin and psionicist's cases, their hair hung in damp tendrils, many of which clung to their faces. As far as Entreri was concerned, it was the worst weather to endure aside from the flesh peeling sand storms of the Calimshan or Anauroch desert.

Thoughts about the heat and humidity soon left their minds when the sounds of battle pierced the smothering haze. Despite the scalding humidity, the three rushed forward, skimming the tree line to see what lay ahead. Both Entreri and Jarlaxle were excited to see Vektch's forces in action, let alone a possible first glimpse of their wanted man. As they jogged through the long grass at the edge of the rice fields, Jarlaxle already had his spyglass in hand.

When the field of battle became apparent, the drow mercenary came to a stop and lifted the spyglass to his eye. Without the aid of the device, Entreri reached up to a nearby tree branch and climbed up for a better view of the ground maneuvers. What he saw didn't seem seminal or especially brilliant; what he saw was typical battlefield tactics.

General Ashrei's well-armed and armored divisions clearly had the less structured and less equipped Chondathan Liberation Forces in retreat. As Jaka had told them, many of Vektch's militants had already crossed the river and were felling as many of the general's troops as came into range. Those troops were lured easily by the sight of the so-called Liberation Forces' backs as the rearward divisions fled toward the high waters of one of the Arran River's two local tributaries.

The size of the conflict was on an impressive scale, immediately erasing the notion that Casteja Vektch was actually a bandit captain. For all intents and purposes, if this was only one part of Vektch's military power, for he had several military actions raging of varying size and complexity raging across Chondath at any one time, Vektch was a leader of a sizeable insurgency. Bandits were much less sophisticated and certainly never worked on such a large and complex scale. No, Vektch was no bandit.

Beyond the trampled rice fields, the ground was ripped and scarred by horse hooves and more than a thousand combatants' hobnailed boots. Grass, rain, blood and limb had churned the marsh area into a gigantic soupy mud pit. The only sure footing to be found was over the bodies of the dead and still dying; footholds few of the soldiers or insurgents had any qualms using. With the cessation of the rain, the smell of rent grass and death wound together under the sun's rays.

The terrible scene was punctuated with battle cries, the clash of armaments and armor, shrieks, and the occasional roar of various forms of battle magic. Without the rain to wash away the ruddy mud, soldiers on both sides were taking on the added physical burden of mud that weighed down their limbs. They were already used to the soft ground sucking at their legs.

On the ground, Jarlaxle was searching the conflict with little success, thanks to the nature of the terrain. Snorting in irritation, he triggered his innate levitation and rose into the tree branches near the assassin. Below, Jaka had little interest in the goings on and had dropped into a crouch to poke at a vividly green caterpillar's plump body as it undulated across a spray of leaves. The assassin shook his head at the lad's continued fascination with the surface world and its variety of colorful denizens.

Entreri turned to Jarlaxle: "Are you looking for him?"

"General Ashrei first," Jarlaxle admitted with a wicked grin. "I want to see if she looks as I imagine. Then I'll find—Ah! There she is. My, not exactly as I thought but very similar; such revealing armor on an impressive figure. Ah, turning our man in may be sweeter than I thought." The dark elf changed direction, looking across the river with great interest. "And our handsome, brilliant, articulate bandit… Where oh where can he be? If Ashrei's on the field, Casteja must be also."

At this, Entreri found himself leaning forward in interest. Compared with hunting down Regis, this jaunt was shaping up to be exceedingly brief. Most of their bounty hunting jobs had been far less challenging and quickly completed. Capturing Vektch was getting more interesting and complicated by the day. Regis had been simple to separate from his wretched friends, even his hated enemy Drizzt Do'Urden couldn't stop the focused assassin. He supposed Vektch's capture would be no easy thing, but with Jarlaxle at his side, it would prove twice as entertaining.

"_There!_" the dark elf exclaimed in excitement. "Ah, the notices do him no justice! He is quite a handsome man. And the blade he wields, such a huge topaz! It really is chained to his wrist, Artemis. I'd like just the topaz, chained to my own wrist or to pin up one side of my hat."

"I've known few creatures as enamored of their own voice as you," Entreri sneered at the nearby drow. Unsatisfied with Jarlaxle's commentary, Entreri seized the spyglass from the dark elf's grip. It was a feat made easy considering the patch over Jarlaxle's eye and the spyglass held to the other. Jarlaxle made the beginnings of a testy remark, but felt his ire melt away and turn into an amused expression. He studied the assassin's face as the man brought the spyglass to bear.

It didn't take Entreri long to find Casteja Vektch; he had closely marked the angle Jarlaxle had held the spyglass at when he announced his discovery. Vektch was standing knee deep in the river, which had run over its banks on the Liberation Force's side. The man was a contrast of ferocity and strange calm overlaid with an intensity few men or women ever seemed to project. Unlike the typical Chondathan, his skin was pale and his features much less earthy. Entreri did not consider himself a credible judge of masculine looks, but he could see where the man's bone structure, high cheek bones and clean jaw line, would be considered attractive.

Vektch was shouting at a floundering group of soldiers that were trying to make it across the rushing river without being swept away into the Arrabar army's arrow range. An expert at reading lips, Entreri could see Vektch was encouraging the band of soldiers to swim harder. One hand gestured in a series of beckoning circles while the other arm was held at an angle slightly behind him, gripping a long sword that trailed a chain from hilt to wrist. Due to the angle, Entreri had no idea how huge the topaz was, but he noted the blade's crosspiece looked unconventional.

"The sword looks interesting," Entreri admitted, intrigued. "I imagine it is worth at least Vektch's weight in gold. Do you have a buyer in mind?"

From beside him Jarlaxle sighed. "Several. Pity I'm not particularly disposed to keep willful, psionic magic items anymore."

The comment confirmed Entreri's suspicions that Jarlaxle was still smarting after being badly used by the crystal shard, Crenshinibon. Uncomfortable with a sudden foreign urge to sympathize with his partner, the assassin moved the conversation forward and past thoughts of the shard. "Call him up here so he can get a look at that thing."

"I am here."

The assassin lowered the spyglass in deliberately slow motion and saw the lad standing in the air, not far removed from Jarlaxle's position. He was concerned with the silent approach, but reasoned there was little to be done when it came to levitation. "I want you to tell me what you think of the blade."

The lad's left hand came up to take the spyglass and the brass tool was slapped into his palm with an audible smack. Jaka judiciously wiped off the eyepiece with a square of black cloth, oblivious to the bunching muscle in Entreri's jaw. Satisfied with the relative cleanliness of the implement, he raised it to one pale eye and aimed it to the overflowing river.

When the spyglass stopped moving, they felt reasonably certain the lad had found Vektch and the weapon in question. They were not surprised to see Jaka's brow knit in concentration as he stared with one eye squinted shut, the other held close to the eyepiece. "It looks… disturbing."

Disturbing was not how Entreri wanted a dark elf to refer to anything unless said dark elf had been raised far away from the pervasive wickedness and horror of drow society. "Can you tell if it has mind powers?"

"Not by looking with my eyes," the lad admitted, taking the spyglass from his eye. He looked as if he was about to volunteer more, but then closed in on himself. He wiped the eyepiece off again and promptly handed the item back to Entreri. There was a carefully blank mask on Jaka's youthful face that the assassin assumed meant he was thinking about the situation. Entreri handed the spyglass back to Jarlaxle with a subtly exasperated look.

The dark elf wasn't worried about their interaction; he knew the lad would not risk irritating him. The once houseless Jaka didn't need to be reminded how important it was to stay on the elder drow's good side.

Curious for one more look before heading off to prepare the site where they would be meeting Tan in the evening, Jarlaxle went back to the vision of the intriguing Casteja Vektch. He looked less wicked in person than the wanted notices had depicted him. A purveyor of all kinds of wealth, he could appreciate what he saw physically, socially, and economically; and what he saw pleased him.

Inevitably, he trained his crimson gaze on the long sword and the huge orange topaz set within strangely organic coils. The stylized ropes looked almost like tentacles and were sculpted to look as if they wrapped around and were also impaled by the sharp, curving spikes of the crosspiece. He guessed the large gem was the relative size of his palm. He stared at the topaz for a moment of greedy fantasy, imagining all the things he could do with it provided it could be removed from the sword.

His fantasies almost moved him to a point of no return, where he was on the threshold of planning the various ways of neutralizing the sentience that could be contained in the gem, when he noticed the flaw. He had stared long and lovingly at the gem until he had gained a far clearer view of it than he had Casteja's face. The view revealed a line that ran down the center of the vividly orange stone, bisecting it vertically. Disappointment tightened his striking features briefly, before the next shock obliterated the fleeting emotion completely.

As he watched, the line widened instantly to a pointed ellipse. Beside him, he heard Jaka's sharp intake of breath and a stuttered noise. Jarlaxle's jaw slackened slightly in sudden horror as the black shape thinned, just as instantly, to an innocuous line. He slammed the spyglass shut hard.

Concerned by both the look of shock on Jaka's normally inexpressive face and the horror he had few occasions to see on his partner, Entreri's hands instinctively seized the hilt of his dagger and powerful sword. "What is it?"

The assassin's question was not about the sword, of course, but a general inquiry into what was wrong. Jarlaxle answered the question as he thought it was asked. "It isn't a topaz at all." He turned his head to hold Entreri's dark gaze. "It's an eye."

Staring blankly into the distance, Jaka whispered, "Not even that; it's Vritra."


	6. a terrible thing to taste

Disclaimer: The recognizable characters in this fanfiction were created by R. A. Salvatore in association with the legal entity Wizards of the Coast, who owns relevant copyrights to additional Forgotten Realms material referred to herein. The characters are used without permission but no material profit of any kind is being made from the following work. WotC reserve rights to Forgotten Realms material, but all of the characters and situations unique to this work of fan fiction are property of the writer. Many brain cells and eardrumswrithed in agony in the creation of this story.

_A/N: This is one of the most difficult chapters I havewritten (outside nonfiction and publication). The last scene was written almost two months ago, but the rest of it was extremely torturous to construct. I ended up throwing out three scenes. I know quality doesn't equal popularity, but I'd appreciate getting reviews on this one, even if it is just a word of thanks for the ridiculous amount of effort that produced crap. (laugh)_

* * *

"_I'm chewing on glass,  
__I'm eating my fingers…"  
_"_Cutting my face,  
__And walking on splinters…"_  
-Ministry, _Stigmata_

_a terrible thing to taste_

"I never denied their beauty," Entreri said with a shrug. "I expected there to be things like this in the Underdark."

Jarlaxle nodded in agreement. "There are lizards that can make the tips of their tongues glow to attract insects, but nothing on this scale; nothing so lovely and benevolently hypnotic."

After the rain had cleared away, the trio had found a secluded spot where they could hide and keep an eye on the nearby battlefield. Before long, in the purple and amber rays of gathering dusk, fireflies had begun to appear one by glowing one.

It wasn't the first time the two had seen the luminescence of a growing multitude of softly flashing insects, but it was the first time for them to see the Chondathan variety. Rather than light their yellowish green abdomens and dipping down to find a female, the Chondathan fireflies flew in slow orbits in their search. They would glow as long as it took them to complete a full circuit and then move on to trace another greenish circle in the air.

"Do you like them more than the mountains at that hole, the Spirit Soaring?" Entreri asked, not above vindictive sarcasm when the impulse arose.

A chuckle rose from the dark elf's throat. "If I do it is because the fleeting nature of these creatures makes them special. Mountains are there day after day, millennium after millennium. These little insects are only available perhaps one month out of an entire year."

"At least you are consistent," Entreri snorted quietly. "Only interested in oddities, rarities, and worthless beauty."

"Oh," Jarlaxle sighed, feigning curiosity. "Which are you? Obviously not beauty: oddity, I suppose."

The assassin snorted again but this time the dark elf recognized as an indication of Entreri's humor. "You're the oddity. Rarity more like; Jarlaxle's first associate that does not depend on him."

Jarlaxle looked over at Entreri with a smirk and a glint in his eye that may or may not have had anything to do with the glowing insect circling between the two. "But you do need me, Artemis. What would you do without me?"

"Without you," Entreri replied, tan face lit by the last rose rays of the setting sun and the strobing green of the same firefly, "I suppose I would be dead. Without me, you could say the same. By the same token, it is your fault we have so many life threatening situations. It seems we're better off knowing each other, if only by default."

A small but true chuckle came up from the dark elf's heart, an organ not entirely as black as his skin. "And here I thought we were just in it for the fun and profit. You've put some thought into this, haven't you? I find myself humbled by your underlying sentiment."

The assassin didn't so much as glance in Jarlaxle's direction, despite the accusation of sentimentality. The encroaching night and the beauty of the scenery had gone farther to calm the man than he would admit. He was usually far beyond being touched by the lovely trappings of a world bent on the destruction of its every inhabitant. For a moment, however, he was applying what he knew of Jarlaxle's ability to enjoy himself. He accepted a moment of serenity in the eerie beauty not far removed from a vast field of atrocity and death.

"Don't get used to it, drow." He finally replied, glancing at the small knot of textured blackness among a tupelo's gnarled roots. "Will the fireflies distract him?"

Jarlaxle allowed Entreri to divert the subject; he didn't want to push the assassin after the man had failed to deny a hint of appreciation. "In a city lit by magma and thermal plateaus, I'm sure he's seen even more bizarre manifestations. Kimmuriel knows the boy well enough to telepathically impart the most relevant of his experiences on the surface. I think the most disconcerting thing for any drow, other than the sun and open sky, is the constant and varied racket."

Entreri nodded in agreement; the blanket of silence that lay over the Underdark was oppressive and unsympathetic to noise. On the surface, save in regions affected by winter, noise reigned. He recalled how uncomfortable cricket chirping and birdcalls seemed when he returned from Menzoberranzan after the months of hell he had endured there. He had never been a man that cared for loud noises, but his tolerance for noise was severely impaired the first weeks of his miserable journey back to Calimport. Of late, the rain had effectively drowned most of that noise out to a dull and monotonous roar that was easy to get used to.

"Besides," Jarlaxle continued, "those born with silent magic have strong powers of concentration, not unlike their wizardly cousins. If the many males and females I once knew from Oblodra are anything to judge by, their ability to focus is even more impressive. You need not fear for the safety of your mind."

Hardly at ease with the notion of relying on anyone but himself, Entreri scowled and rose from the fallen and decomposing tree the two had claimed for a dry perch to rest while Jaka took his sleep. They soon needed to leave the area to find the place appointed for meeting Casteja's lackey, Tan.

As soon as the assassin moved away to pick up his travel gear, Jarlaxle adjusted his eye patch minutely. He was deeply gratified that he had the magic item while working with Kimmuriel, but now he felt doubly indebted to it. The sword, Vritra, had seemed to look across the distance at them as he had stared at it. He remembered well the shock that spiked through his heart when it dilated and the stuttered noise Jaka had made, though the lad wasn't looking at it at the time.

The pragmatic mercenary was feeling very attached to the eye patch, with hardly a hint of guilt. He wasn't an unkind male, in fact, he enjoyed it when those he looked kindly on were enjoying themselves. However, when it came down to it, his urge for self-sacrifice had been erased on an altar at his birth. He sincerely liked Entreri and honestly labeled him as a friend, but in matters such as this it was every male for himself and devil take hindmost.

Not that they really needed to go through with the planned capture, it was mainly a mission to relieve a strong desire for a challenge the two had recently lacked. There were certain other extenuating circumstances Jarlaxle was already enjoying and continued to find curious. If they gave up the work now, he wouldn't have the excuse to satisfy his desire for valuable knowledge and possible fringe benefits.

Standing slowly, Jarlaxle leaned back and stretched comfortably, glancing covertly at his human traveling companion as he did. Smiling to himself he admitted silently that he was actually feeling a twinge of anxiety about risking the assassin's mental health.

Walking through glowing orbits, Jarlaxle approached the young tool he had borrowed from Kimmuriel. For a moment he looked down at the small form, wrapped completely in his camouflaging piwafwi. He didn't really know the young male, but considered him a potentially valuable asset should his mind prove stable and his survival instincts strong. The risks, he decided, were proportionate to the gains in this case.

He crouched beside the lichen covered tree roots and called the lad's name. Jaka uncovered his head; Jarlaxle noticed the boy's eyes were quite slow to focus and when they did, they immediately darted to the last vestiges of sunset. The next glance flicked to the glowing trail of green that was being drawn in the air near his head.

The lad sat up quickly, but did not seem alarmed. He glanced at Jarlaxle and nodded sagely, both greeting him and acknowledging the older male's lack of concern regarding the moving lights. He unwrapped himself completely from the piwafwi and got to his feet.

"I'm ready," he assured Jarlaxle, brushing off his clothing while stealing glances at the fireflies from the corner of his eye.

"Then we should be off," Jarlaxle remarked, for no other reason than to cue Entreri, who was still standing beside the fallen tree, gazing at the horizon thoughtfully. The assassin heard him and turned toward them without a word. Together they fell into step, and soon found themselves walking through ankle-deep water on the way to their rendezvous.

The advantage of having Jaka to search the area for any of Casteja or Ashrei's scouts was of great value to the two bounty hunters. They arrived at the appointed meeting place, just inside the tree line where it met the bank of the wide Arran River. Fortunately for the three of them, the bank in that area was sufficiently high above the river's rainwater engorged flood plain that they had very little wading to do in order to get to it.

Arriving an hour early, Entreri both cased the perimeter, despite Jaka's psionic searching, and then placed the psionicist out of sight with patient instructions on how best to remain hidden in the leafy area. Jarlaxle found the whole affair amusing, but made no mention of it; he was secure in Entreri's expertise, Jaka's skill, and his own ability to predict a situation.

Half an hour passed before Entreri felt a small intrusion in his mind. It was a profoundly unsettling feeling, but he felt nothing out of the ordinary come to mind as he had in previous telepathic encounters. _The cleric approaches alone. _He nodded minutely to Jarlaxle, signaling the approach of their cleric long before either of them would hear him. When the man came into view they were impressed that he made little noise in his gentle gait.

Tan was a man that looked as much as he belonged to the wood as any animal. His hair seemed to be the source of his name, closely cropped and tan as dry wheat. He was of average human height, which put him inches above the lot of them and was not at all diminished by being, perhaps, ten years Entreri's elder. He was strong and able, looking just as fit as any soldier might at the same age. His eyes were the typical Chondath hazel, with a depth that came with a disciplined nature and reservoirs of intelligence.

Jarlaxle read an expression of intrigue in the man's eyes as he studied the drow's garish figure. It was a look he normally did not see in the eyes of a human before or after the initial shock of black skin and pointed ears. Tan, Jarlaxle knew, was intelligent and probably closer to Casteja than they had originally hoped. His connection with his deity was probably far greater than they had expected as well.

"Master Tan," Jarlaxle began as the familiar man approached, "you are very early!"

A hint of a smile pulled at the man's lips, but his eyes remained serious; a habit among Chondathans of which the dark elf was growing weary. "As are you. It almost feels like an ambush, but I've already heard from my watchers that you have little intention of causing me harm."

The mention of watchers pumped a surge of paranoia through Entreri, but he kept his cool as he had in a thousand similar situations. He looked at the cleric with a new measure of respect, but gave no indication that anything had changed. The man might be bluffing, for what would watch them and not alert Jaka to its presence? Additionally, as Jarlaxle had pointed out in Iljak, there was the matter of the assassin's sensitivity to scrying. If there truly was some sort of observation going on, Jaka would have to take care of it.

"As you may recall, sir," Jarlaxle was careful to dance all around a lie without actually stepping on it, "my associate and I are interested in speaking to Master Vektch about Eles Wianar, not ambushing, hog-tying, or otherwise inconveniencing his valued cleric." Technically, Jarlaxle was speaking nothing but truth; he _was_ interested in talking to Casteja about Wianar and he really hoped Tan would not get in the way before or after that talk was complete. He wasn't sure if the cleric had access to enchantments that detected lies, but he wasn't the type to take chances of that nature.

"Yes," Tan nodded, "and Casteja is interested in that discussion. The problem lies in caution and timelines. I need proof you are who you say you are. The Calishite fits the description, but you, Master Do'Urden, do not."

The effort expended in keeping himself from wringing Jarlaxle's neck on the spot was negligible in comparison to keeping an emotionless façade. Entreri was sick of the moronic exploits of Jarlaxle Do'Urden; friend to humanity and righter of wrongs, injustices, and upended ale flagons. He glanced over at his partner, who looked more delighted than he had in days. It seemed their quarry knew of both Artemis Entreri and Drizzt Do'Urden. This didn't seem to Entreri like any sort of rapturous news in light of their previous mutual animosity.

"It is so hot in this country," Jarlaxle exclaimed with honest emotion leading his deception, "even you have cut your hair! Who wouldn't? As for this," Jarlaxle tapped the red eye patch, "it allows me to see things in a different light, shall we say. A helpful item."

"Very," Tan smirked, his Chondathan heritage showing through in a slight aversion to Jarlaxle's enthusiasm. Unconsciously, the stalwart man had leaned back from the display. "I didn't have long to speak to him, but Casteja mentioned he had once considered sending a message to Master Entreri." Entreri nodded in acknowledge and passing amusement. No, Casteja Vektch was not much of a saint. "And he has heard of you, Drizzt Do'Urden, but didn't expect to meet one of your kind."

"As well he shouldn't," Jarlaxle sagely advised, "for dark elves are predominately an evil race, bent on wicked plans of subjugation and power. Best for him if I'm the only dark elf he meets up close."

The cleric nodded in reply. He seemed to be satisfied by Jarlaxle's responses, but Entreri marked the sharp look to the man's eyes. If Tan was at all deceived, it was thanks to Jaka's work in conjunction with Jarlaxle's high level of cunning. "I understand. If you wish to meet with Casteja, there is a shrine on the opposite side of the river he will be at when Selune reaches her zenith. If you head upstream for about an hour, you will see a line of moss-covered stones that come up from out of the river. Follow those northeast; they will lead you down through the swamp and eventually up onto the only hill in the area. It is old and decrepit, but you should be able to find the shrine.

"You will have two things to worry about on the way. Ashrei sent troops to the far side of the Arran River's other tributary in an effort to cross the river, cut behind and outflank us. It is possible that she's also sent some this side that have slipped through our welcoming parties. Other than her forces, you may have a number of angry natives that will not care which side you are on."

Jarlaxle nodded and reached out to shake Tan's hand, but the cleric completely ignored the gesture. Unoffended, the dark elf clasped his hands together. "Anyone who opposes Wianar's alliance with Thay is a friend to Drizzt Do'Urden." Also not a lie, noted Jarlaxle, because he sincerely believed he was telling the truth. He couldn't comprehend how the poor self-righteous lad could possibly see the slavers of Thay with anything other than outraged contempt.

A light of comprehension seemed to settle over the cleric's features with the new layer to Jarlaxle's deception. "There will only be the two of you?" he asked, beginning to turn away.

Jarlaxle nodded, counting on the nonverbal cue to pass a possible detect lie spell. "Master Entreri and I will be the only warm bodies. Come to think of it, I don't plan on any cold bodies coming with us, either." After all, Jaka's body didn't necessarily have to be present for him to be there.

If Tan's eyes narrowed, it was because he did not mind conveying his suspicion. Entreri again reminded himself Jaka had made enough contact with the man's mind that he could manipulate his thoughts more easily. The cleric continued back the way he came with an easy stride, while Jarlaxle and Entreri exchanged knowing looks and then turned as one to Jaka's far removed position.

"Chauntea is a nature goddess," Jarlaxle sighed breathily, half verbalizing their collective mistake.

"It isn't possible to hide from animals in a forest," Entreri remarked, finishing the other half of Jarlaxle's unspoken conclusion.

The two advanced on the lad's position and found him holding his hands cupped together at chest level and peering between his thumbs at flashes of green. Before Entreri could begin to ask if the lad had paid attention at all, Jaka went against his normal grain by speaking first, albeit in drow. "Vektch described Drizzt Do'Urden as having purple eyes, but Tan had already been convinced that Do'Urden was the same flashy red-eyed male he saw a few days prior. I fixed that."

As he spoke, he opened his hands and watched the double handful of fireflies he had caught swarm up his fingers to find high points to fly from, many illuminated the contours of his slender hands as they climbed. "Additionally, Tan received reconnaissance from area wildlife concerning my presence. That is also fixed."

Several of the fireflies took flight from the young male's fingers and flew far from the group, but a few flew straight into the lad's impassive face and pitch black hair. The reflection of their green fluorescence off his eyes and was strange. "Vektch has been injured in the retreat; a serious ankle sprain, attributed to the terrain. Tan is anxious because Vektch distributed the healing potions to his forces in order to bind their loyalty closer to him and left none for himself. The cleric is frustrated because he cannot heal the man with prayers and the faerie, Narbeli, is overdue to meet with them to discuss withdrawal into the wood."

The information, flowing like no other source could supply, brought a wicked grin to Jarlaxle's handsome ebony face. Psionicists, when under control, were worth more than a troop of normal spies. "Good. Work on finding out why the cleric can't heal him and how much of a threat Ashrei is to them at the moment. Is this a victory through loss, or is this a real loss?"

Jaka turned his eyes from the last firefly fleeing his fingertip and up to the two dangerous males standing over him. "I will need to go to the temporary command post they have erected in order to collect more information. When the time arrives would you like to join with me in order to share the experience?"

Remembering distinctly the misunderstanding he had made back when Kimmuriel had suggested such a 'joining,' Entreri simply shook his head. This time, he knew the drow making the offer was not actually propositioning him. He also recalled that through repeated contact with Tan's mind, Jaka had developed greater ease in invading the cleric's thoughts. Entreri was only too happy to skip the experience, especially as the lad had already contacted his mind once.

Jarlaxle declined as well, though he was more concerned with depleting the lad's concentration and avoiding risks that involved removing his eye patch. "As much as I'd love the chance to see Vektch in action again, I think we're better served if you relay what you see."

Nodding his understanding, the young tailor rose to his feet. "I know where they will meet. It should take him some time to get there, if you want to use that for travel to the shrine he mentioned."

"That was the very thing I had in mind," Jarlaxle teased. "Have you been reading my thoughts after all?"

The mercenary was pleasantly surprised to see a hint of a smile pull at the lad's ebon lips. "I don't think I would be able to recover from the experience."

"True enough," Entreri cut in. "It is bad enough to see the outside, let alone the inside."

Enjoying the attention, Jarlaxle took the barb with his usual good humor. "No, Jaka is simply smart enough to know that the price of entry to my mind is rather high."

"Unlike the price to your bed," Entreri snorted derisively as they began the latest leg of the journey.

The comment reduced Jarlaxle to nearly breathless laughter that Entreri found extravagant for the simple taunt. "Hah! Artemis, would you like to know the price? Maybe we should inquire in the next town."

The man didn't look back as they walked. "Just because many are ready to part with a large amount of gold to get those repulsive clothes off your body, don't think it has anything to do with sex."

Dodging between the fireflies, Jarlaxle only laughed the harder. If he wasn't mistaken, it seemed his pet project had found a way to enjoy a given moment, even if that enjoyment did take the form of acidic wit. The assassin was making progress in his own unique way and perhaps someone else was as well. "Jaka, are you just going to let the man insult your fine work?"

Two days ago, Jaka had been secretly mortified by Entreri's half of the occasionally disrespectful dialogue that cycled between the two males. It continued to amaze him, but he had since become used to the phenomenon. Somewhere in the unfocused sense of self he rarely examined or felt, the lad was cautiously envious of a rivalry without rancor; it was something unknown to most drow.

There was a long pause as both Jarlaxle and Entreri awaited the lad's answer, for clothing was always a way to get the quiet youth to offer a definite opinion. "It isn't the clothes that are repulsive, but the combination."

Smiling smugly at the effect he was having on both males, Jarlaxle took no offense at the fleeting alliance between assassin and tailor. Yes, he thought to himself, conflict made for strange bedfellows.

-xXx-

The tributary they followed into the forest was deep and flooded, but after half an hour of brisk travel, it began to slither through the woods in the pronounced curves of a young river. The rain water easily softened the curves, cutting down the bank in a millennia long process that would eventually straighten the stream and mark it as a mature arm of the long established Arran.

The canopy above them was beginning to wear shreds of hanging moss and more profuse coverage that diminished what little light they had from the moon. Jarlaxle's uncovered eye glowed faintly red when he switched to more useful infravision, while Jaka's eyes seemed to take a reflective sheen, not unlike most nocturnal animals. Entreri's eyes did not change with the dimness, but the shadows he walked in seemed to continually swallow him whole.

It was near an hour of brisk walking before the assassin noticed the line of smooth rocks breaking up the river's smooth surface. Jarlaxle saw them almost simultaneously, as he could see the cold current beneath the river's surface churning around the large rocks. Thanks to his infravision, he could see they were more like boulders jutting up from the river bed.

"This must be the place," Jarlaxle murmured, switching his gaze to the lighted spectrum in order to more accurately ascertain the footing the rocks might offer. It was then he noticed the moss on the stones sprouted tiny luminous buds.

"It is… pretty," Jaka commented, moving fluidly and cautiously through the foliage near the water. He crouched near the bank and stepped onto a maze of cypress roots. "There's a flimsy support made of vines spanning the river."

Feeling vaguely enchanted despite himself, Entreri slipped through the undergrowth to inspect the area around the vines in question. Near the vines, which were tied to the cypress' thick trunk, the assassin found a number of barely discernible foot prints. "Lizardmen must cross the river here, though they haven't recently."

He reached up and tapped the vine experimentally. After careful consideration, he decided it was too old and flimsy to be a trap, unless a potential river-crosser relied on it over much. "It won't even hold Jaka's weight," he announced, straightening.

Jaka, who knew a way to reduce his weight to nearly nothing, knew better but did not disagree with the human. He looked to Bregan D'aerthe's former leader for guidance, but hardly needed to do so; Entreri leapt out to the first rock and landed with a dancer's fluid grace.

The assassin made the trip quickly, no longer concerned with the mysteriously calm atmosphere. He darted from one stone to another, his path clear thanks to moonlight flowing down from a break in the canopy over the river and the softly phosphorous buds coming out of the moss. Once he made it to the opposite bank, Entreri looked back at the black and silver water flowing around the faintly glowing rocks. Every touch he'd made on the moss was faintly visible as a dark smudge where he had crushed the glowing buds.

The two drow quickly followed the assassin, neither disturbing the vine handrail with their passage. Both did an excellent job of following in the assassin's footsteps, instinctually minimizing proof of their presence.

On the bank they found more of the moss covered stones that ranged in size, but were all half or more buried. They were spaced relatively the same distance apart and were flanked on one side by an old animal trail. At their highest, the rocks came up to waist height, some only came up to mid-shin, while others seemed to have been removed or shattered long ago, for only a vague, water-filled depression marked their presence.

The three crept into the cover of the trees and underbrush and moved far from the river where the ground became impossible to tread without leaving a mark. They were heading into the swamp and leaving reliable footing behind them. Before the terrain became too treacherous, they called another halt in order for Jaka to look in on Tan's progress.

The lad found Tan quickly enough, the movement of his eyes told Entreri that much. He was again reminded how outmatched the earthbound body was when it came to the speed of thought. He absently stretched his fingers out, noting the physical limitations of the gauntlet he wore.

They learned many things from Jaka's spying. Tan would be spared a division of soldiers to help farmers in the area dig graves, rebuild and replant crops. This was not done out of the kindness of the rebels' hearts, but in order to keep good relations with the locals.

Before Tan's return, Vektch evacuated a representative from Sespech in order to keep her from discovering his interest in having Eles Wianar assassinated by drow and Calishite assassins. Neither Entreri nor Jarlaxle were sure why this was of any concern to the man.

The use of a wizard of Thay was a dominated the discussion and equaled their concerns about their ban from the depths of Chondalwood. General Ashrei's recent variety of brutal tactics and risky attacks had convinced them she believed this was her best and only chance to kill or capture Vektch: the man in question believed Ashrei was right.

During a discussion of the planned retreat and scattering of forces, Narbeli made her appearance. She accused Casteja of using the wood to further his war aims and endangering it in the process. Jaka ended his observations when he read in her mind the intention to let the man use the forest one last time to make their escape, but not until she felt she had made him suffer for the privilege.

Looking no worse for the use of his mysterious power, Jaka rose and fell into step with the other two. He explained quietly to Jarlaxle that Tan's inability to heal Vektch's sprained ankle was due to Vritra's influence; it scattered the man's thoughts every time he began a prayer.

It was the factor that convinced Entreri and Jarlaxle that the item truly did possess a sentience and goals that could be quite different from Casteja's. The conclusion was anything but pleasant and left them wondering what the sword's stake in the uprising could be.

With layers of branches and the tattered veils of hanging moss trailing across and down the ancient swamp's canopy, the only light to see by was the occasional beam of silver moonlight. The moving illumination of the fireflies chased shadows slowly around vegetation. Shadows from the branches and hanging vegetation rippled across every surface, their movement dictated by a humid breeze. The beauty of the scene was all the more remarkable for the nearly overpowering scent of decay and blooming life the area exuded from every corner and crevice. The smell of night blooming jasmine hung heavy and cloying in the thick air, undercutting every breath they took.

The meandering line of old stone markers eventually led them in a slow incline which announced shallower water. And though Jarlaxle knew better, he hoped it would mean a reprieve from the new hoard of mosquitoes he could not slap at for fear of diminishing their secrecy. The hill they sought was not long in following. It rose quite suddenly from the brackish water in a majestic slope that seemed rather unnatural for the area. The usual swamp vegetation crowded the base of the landmark, but further up its mossy banks, valuable stands of hardwoods stood.

Grateful for a reprieve from wading, sometimes thigh deep in alligator and monster infested waters, the three made their way to the hill. It was a quiet place: the droning of cicadas, low calls of night birds, and chirping of insects and frogs seemed muted the higher they climbed among the hard woods and red maples.

The rounded stone markers were interspersed with other crumbled monuments of eras long past. Heaps of moss covered stones, half buried blocks of granite, and other traces of long lost worship were found along the way. All were so old and worn that no identifying feature could be found on them. At the top of they found the shrine and as far as Entreri was concerned, there were few to compare it to.

It was built of weathered granite and closed on all sides but the west, which lacked any sort of wall and was completely open to their approach and the elements. Inside the shrine was a raised altar of the same stone. There were thin candle spikes set along the perimeter of the altar, a few even impaled new-looking beeswax candles of varying length. There were also two porcelain cups filled with water or liquor. A number of vaguely animal-shaped monuments loomed within the structure. Some were fitted with rusted iron spikes meant for mounting more candles.

A huge stone urn sat in front of the altar and was filled to capacity with murky sludge and rainwater. It was the only thing within the altar other than the debris strewn across the grassy floor that retained a semblance of its original color. For everything within the shrine was coated in oily blackness from centuries of burning candles, incense, and other unknown offerings. The strong smell of sandalwood, teak, amber, myrrh and a multitude of other types of incense permeated the top of the hill and drifted out of the small shrine.

"This is the place," Jarlaxle said needlessly, his voice kept very low. The drow had seen many places of worship in his life, many quite old, but the feeling to this one was at once more palpable and more mysterious than most. It seemed to be the shrine of a nature deity of some kind. He turned to Jaka, while Entreri began scouring the structure for traps and any useful features. "Who is this place special to?"

The young drow's lips pulled back over sharp black teeth in a look of surprisingly blatant disgust. "None, the god is dead."

Jarlaxle's eyebrow raised in curiosity at the reaction and the commentary. "It doesn't feel dead."

The young drow gestured to the shrine. "I know this feeling. This place is haunted, not by a deity or mortal spirit, but by the presence of a moment that spans all time. Something has or will happen that is or was strong enough that time has no power over it. Therefore, it has been this way since the beginning of time and will feel like this even after time ends."

A sly look crossed Jarlaxle's visible crimson eye. "You know the god is dead thanks to our friend, Tan? If the god died here, do you think that could be the moment that haunts this place? Or do you think the moment that haunts this place led creatures to worship here in the first place?"

"The chicken or the egg argument," Entreri snorted, walking up to the two drow, who were a challenge to see against the shrine's pitch interior. "Make yourselves useful rather than making pointless conversation."

Jaka looked at a point between the two males as if he never heard the assassin in the first place. Jarlaxle found the pettiness charming as always, but opted to capitulate. "Jaka, look in on Casteja and his group and find out who is coming and when. We need to know what to expect and how long we have to prepare."

The lad nodded and withdrew two small, gray-looking crystals from his piwafwi. He knelt down before the altar to begin another scouting mission. Entreri looked at the crystals and then signed to Jarlaxle, _I thought his type didn't need spell components_.

The mercenary nodded, _They can use crystals to enhance their work, but he's not using those as a focus. You don't recognize them for what they are because they are not floating around his head._

Sudden understanding lit in the man's sharp mind. _Burned out ioun stones. Psionicists can use them?_

_Many hold limited reserves of energy a psionicist can tap into._

"They are twenty minutes distant," Jaka whispered, interrupting the hand signal conversation taking place between the two partners. "Tan, four soldiers, and Vektch. They are highly agitated because… Where is the sword?" The lad's head jerked slightly to one side, but drifted back in place. Entreri and Jarlaxle exchanged cautious looks, trying to guess what the movement portended. "The healing potions you protected not three days ago were all deadly. Ashrei set them up; Vektch lost eight of his highest commanding officers. One was…" The boy flinched again. "One was Tan's wife. He's harder to read now. There is no chain around Vektch's wrist and I can't find the sword."

Entreri was surprised to see a wickedly knowing smile cross Jarlaxle's face with the news. "Poor Master Tan. General Ashrei obviously earned her current position as Wianar's warlord through cunning, rather than her amazing physique. Who knew that all that time, we were just a smoke screen to hide a thrust at Casteja's heart? I think she's a good match for Captain Vektch."

Somewhat impressed himself, Entreri took his partner's shoulder and turned away from the psionicist, to minimize distractions in what was obviously a much more difficult task than normal thanks to Tan's disrupted emotional state. "If that's the case, why is Vektch coming out here? He may think we planted the poison; he knows me as an assassin."

"Let me know when you find the sword and tell me if they are coming out here to kill us," Jarlaxle commanded over his shoulder. "Does it matter? Drizzt's reputation helps our reputation. Besides, we planned to take him tonight if it was our best chance. I don't think it will be easy, but every chance after this will increase in difficulty exponentially. Nothing is turning out the way we thought, but the result is the same; this is our best chance to take him."

Sighing in frustration, the assassin nodded. He preferred to plan for every last contingency and here they had only twenty minutes to formulate a rough outline. The first consideration Entreri made was that things were obviously more complicated than he'd thought. This didn't worry him as a skilled assassin always knew to leave room for the unexpected and in a country he had never been in before there would be many such situations. The next consideration was that General Ashrei was far more capable than he had suspected.

Opposite him, Jarlaxle was just as deep in thought when a terrible keening of such high pitch that both males flinched reflexively came from behind them. They turned as one, weapons flashing under the gaze of bleaching moonlight, only to find the ear piercing whine issuing from between a set of clenched obsidian teeth.

Jaka had fallen backwards from where he knelt before the altar. His shins and feet were still against the ground but his upper body had arched back like he was being electrocuted. His head and shoulders cleared his feet, but writhed in erratic jerks through the grass. The slim drow's hands were rigid claws, rending air like carnivorous flowers and supported by elbows that were digging furrows in the ground below his waist.

The dark elf's chest was heaving out of rhythm, lungs expanding shakily as he inhaled through tightly clenched teeth. Most terrible to behold were his pale eyes that normally yielded a dull gaze to the world; now they were rolled back in an attempt to see what had broken violently through his mental defenses. Rims of yellow were barely seen, shaking minutely underneath spasmodic lashes.

He suddenly exhaled hard; crimson sprayed in a fine mist through the crevices between obsidian teeth. His breath came fast, like a laboring animal and quickly worked the blood limning his snarling lips into a bubbling red froth. His body began to convulse violently, bucking wildly, slamming him against the ground in repeated violent concussions. The blood and saliva foaming at his mouth was joined by dark bubbling gouts that ran down from his nose, to spread across his lower face in haphazard rivulets, formed with little regard to the planes of his face, but according to the course of his convulsions.

Acting on instinct, Entreri seized the lad by his shoulders and tried to jolt him from the unexpected seizure. The grating whine kept coming from deep within the boy's throat as he continued to suck in bloody air through locked teeth. Physical contact did nothing to break the intense strength manifested by the boy's rigid muscles; Entreri couldn't even hold the drow's head still. At a loss, the assassin did the only thing he could think of, he slapped his gauntleted hand over Jaka's heated forehead.

The boy's body continued to buck strongly but the high-pitched keening ceased abruptly. The assassin nearly lost his grip when he tried to hold the youth's head still and Jarlaxle, who was moving over the boy, ended up taking a knee to the gut. Neither the mercenary nor assassin would ever have guessed such a slender form could pack much of a kick, but the impact from the lad's knee knocked Jarlaxle back and stole the wind from his lungs.

By the time Jarlaxle was done gasping wretchedly for air, one of Jaka's flailing hands had bloodied Entreri's lower lip. The assassin was seriously considering letting go and ending the dark elf with his jeweled dagger rather than holding on and taking the abuse. Fortunately for both of them, Jarlaxle had come up with a simple and effective solution.

While Entreri had the struggling dark elf by the shoulders, Jarlaxle deftly moved in again to straddle the lad's waist. From there, it took a minimum of attempts to shove the red eye patch down over Jaka's head. When it was securely in place over one shaking eye the seizing dark elf suddenly fell limp in Enteri's arms.

For a moment all they heard was the sound of their labored breathing after the unexpectedly arduous match. Jarlaxle looked at Entreri with his two crimson eyes and panted wryly, "I didn't see that coming."

The assassin nodded. "Do I kill you for trusting Kimmuriel or Kimmuriel for not preparing the fool properly."

Jaka had wilted over Entreri's thighs until his temple rested against the torn earth. Jarlaxle was still half sitting on the boy, preventing him from falling fully on the ground. Another soft noise became audible as the three remained tangled together. The new sound was very soft, incoherent mumbling. Between the two, Jaka was quickly picked up and set down on his back.

While Jarlaxle withdrew his healing orb, Entreri staunched the slow trickle of blood from his lip and began to clean his face. The orb healed the boy of physical injuries, but the noise continued, only to become a low nearly indecipherable murmur. The words were in heavily accented drow and followed the same repetitive theme. Much of the vocabulary was so dissimilar from the Menzoberranzan dialect that Entreri had to guess at the meaning.

"Not real, nothing's real… Mother... There's nothing, nothing… Where are my fingers…? I'm displaced… There's nothing… nothing…"


	7. cats and mice, mice and cats

This was a longtime in the coming, but I've decided this is the best way to do answers to reviews for now. If not for the backlog, this wouldn't be so long.

_Alzadea_: Yeah, the psionic idea for the sword pretty much shaped this entire fic. And as for Jarlaxle, I think you'll be shocked at first when it finally comes to the surface what he's up to.  
_Lord Onisyr_: Jaka's relationship with everything is clinical. When you think of sentient creatures as herd animals, it bleeds over, but there's another thing at work, too. Glad the black bones and hair thing worked for you and Alzadea.  
_Ariel_: I love it when you pick out details like that. I think Jarlaxle is very dependent on being part of a society, even if he is running around with a consummate loner.  
_hakatri_: The more disturbing you find it, the happier you make me. And writing Jarlaxle's little moment of stupid-greed was very enjoyable. He totally cracks me up. Writing him is actually harder than Entreri.  
_Death Knight's Crowbar_: I adore your pen name. It is hard to write original characters that fulfill a function without taking too much focus from the story. Tan was a bit of a torment to me, which will become obvious when I finish the fic and add a chapter of cut scenes. I cut the extended scene where I established his character. I also cut the beginnings of a scene where you would have seen Narbeli. I'm glad you're reading it like a novel, because I write it like one.  
_Witchwolf_: I can't cover everything you write here! I resort to e-mail most of the time. But I wanted to address a couple things: still think Ashrei is stupid? (grin) And back when you mentioned that horses are edible; I've eaten raw horse (_basashi_is a regional dish where I used to live in southern Japan)so I had that in mind! But I couldn't find a seamless way to insert Jarlaxle commenting on that.

_A/N: I think I've disclaimed enough. Next chapter puts the 'psycho' back in psychological._

* * *

"_Here, stretch'd upon this heav'n-ascending hill,  
__I'll wait the horrors of the coming night,  
__I'll imitate the gently-plaintive rill,  
__And by the glare of lambent vapours write."  
-_Thomas Chatterton, _Elegy to the Memory of Mr. Thomas Phillips_

_cats and mice, mice and cats_

Entreri eyed the drow with a blend of irritation and uneasiness before speaking again. "Finish healing him or I'll be forced to gag him."

"The orb cannot heal a mind." Jarlaxle spoke soberly, fingering the eye patch that covered one of Jaka's shuddering eyes, and shutting the other. "If he continues to speak, we'll gag him. Unfortunately, even if I call Kimmuriel, he would not appear when we would need him."

"He's not expendable, if I recall correctly. I'm becoming less enamored of this plot to capture Vektch by the minute." The assassin threw his hands up shoulder height before him in a rare gesture of utter frustration at the maddening psionic element. It was more proof of the man's acceptance of Jarlaxle's friendship that he did not think to taunt, threaten to kill or abandon the male.

"By the minute?" The dark elf asked blandly, unmoved by his partner's display of recalcitrance. "How enamored of the plot will you be in fifteen of them? And really, Artemis, your word choice amazes me. Enamored, indeed."

Entreri's ire could not have been more plain on his face as he clapped a frigid stare on his calm partner. It was one in a collection of occasional moments where he questioned everything about their association. Jaka, considered a means to an end by both of them, lay in the torn grass, his body occasionally jerking, his mouth whispering low grade nonsense, and his mind probably completely raw and ravaged. The lad had been meant as psychic protection for Entreri since Jarlaxle's protective eye patch was a unique item that would not be leaving the male's person.

The idea of leaving his mind open to the sort of attack they both assumed had just befallen their young psionicist did not set well with the assassin. However, there was not a small matter of pride at stake that Entreri had been considering of late. His gauntleted hand settled on Charon's Claw's skull-pommel as he turned away from Jarlaxle to think.

Not long ago, the two had been involved with another psionic item that had a will of its own and the unbridled ambition to enslave and destroy all in its path. Said item had virtually enslaved Jarlaxle to its will while it had been in his black hands. In Entreri's possession, it had been completely denied, thanks to the man's iron control, strict discipline, and the unremitting loathing he felt for the controlling item. When the assassin heard the young dark elf shape the word 'mother,' it had become clear to Entreri the lad's mind was shattered. What drow would ever call for its mother, knowing what the females were like?

That could be him on the ground, Entreri reasoned, and the sword, Vritra, could just as easily be another Crenshinibon. Their mission was self-imposed thanks to an unhealthy amount of boredom in a protracted spate of bounty hunting jobs without challenge and some ulterior motive Jarlaxle had yet to disclose. In the course of pursuing Casteja Vektch, the two continued to be eaten alive by the local insect population, ended up an unwitting party to an attempted assassination (a point that had the highest irritation value) of their prey, and endured some of the most uncomfortable weather and terrain in the Realms. And now, their bounty's sword was shaping up to be a bigger problem than the bounty himself.

"That's almost five minutes," Jarlaxle commented, beginning to pull the eye patch up Jaka's heated forehead, millimeter by cautious millimeter. "How much love is lost? I admit, my dedication was jolted, but I still feel smitten. That said, I think a ménage a trois was short sighted. I can be a selfish lover; perhaps it is for the best I enter this stage of the seduction alone."

Entreri's knee-jerk revulsion to Jarlaxle's metaphoric speech did not surface immediately. He tuned the mercenary out long enough to consider the skeletal sword strapped to his lean hip. No inanimate object, crystal shard, Netherese blade, or psionic weapon was going to dominate him.

"No," the assassin ground through teeth gritted in angry resolve, "it seems I'm still in love. The bitter and bloodthirsty kind."

The smile that turned up the corners of Jarlaxle's mouth was laced with subtle nuances of sincere appreciation that Entreri didn't know well enough to understand. "In this drama, you will be cast as the spurned lover come to wreak bloody vengeance on your rival."

"Doesn't that role get defeated or humiliated by the hero?" Entreri asked, hardly impressed with his partner's choice.

"Please, my good friend, there are no heroes," Jarlaxle chuckled, his blood red eyes gleaming in the illusive green light of the prolific fireflies. "I would never tell so dull a tale. In this story everyone gets what they deserve, whether they like it or not."

"That's what I'm afraid of," the assassin replied grimly, gripping the hilt of his sword meaningfully. He had no illusions the kind of fate a man like him deserved.

They had little time to hide Jaka properly, but managed to remove the eye patch with no ill effects. Before stowing the quietly delirious lad among the haphazard granite remains of another small worship structure, Entreri took the precaution of searching his soft piwafwi for anything of use.

Jarlaxle suppressed a chuckle at the assassin's pragmatism, and suggested Entreri search for the poor lad's House insignia. Entreri didn't need the suggestion, he was already taking stock. Among the other interesting items stowed in the wooly silk folds, the assassin found a few more ioun stones, a packet of several bone needles, the boy's red measuring cord, a small pouch containing an unidentifiable dust, and the valuable House insignia.

"What spells do you think it has?" The assassin drew only the single item out and flipped it over to observe House Mi'iduor's crest. A hard look entered his gray eyes the moment he got over the initial shock of what he saw. "Does he have two insignias?"

The mercenary leaned over Entreri's shoulder to take a look and smiled. "It has been known to happen and I'm sure he carries his old insignia as a useful memento, but that's the one I had in mind. It should have more than one stoneskin enchantment and possibly web, but there's no telling what else."

"Kimmuriel is going to kill you," Entreri stated firmly, undoing his cloak and laying it over the newly silent youth to further camouflage him. The assassin checked the boy's pulse to make sure the silence was not that of death, but the heat radiating from Jaka's delirious body was proof enough of his continued life.

"He's not going to be very happy, no." Jarlaxle didn't seem worried as he replaced his red eye patch over an equally red eye. "But that's going to be more his problem than mine, I'm afraid. Luckily, I'm fully confident in Kimmuriel's ability to escape the wrath of House Agrach Dyrr in one piece, if not a little chipped around the edges."

The assassin, having spent far too long in Menzoberranzan working for Jarlaxle against his will, was not impressed with his obvious oversight. Of course he had never heard of Mi'iduor; there was no such house in Menzoberranzan. Jarlaxle had been cryptic yet again and used the boy's house name to remind Jaka of his vast informational resources and to keep Entreri in the dark. The male's instinctual knack for surrounding himself with smoke screens was an infuriatingly annoying survival mechanism.

Putting the thought out of his head for the time being, Entreri divested himself of his leather shirt and the long sleeves of the black garment. The night was beginning to cool from the top down, giving rise to growing ground fog, but the assassin anticipated enough exertion to make him uncomfortable with all his layers. A stoneskinenchantment would be useful in the humid environment. "I have just one question."

The two began walking back up to the shrine together, both contemplating the possibilities that awaited them. Jarlaxle could imagine the business-like man's inquiry. "How do we neutralize the sword?"

Surprisingly, Entreri paused and considered the point before he shook his head. He'd had a minor epiphany concerning the sword during the unexpected struggle with the seizing Jaka. "No, I think I may have that covered. I want to know if you have a buyer for the sword or not."

The dark elf would have been surprised by Entreri's answer if he had not realized years prior that the man was exceedingly intelligent. This was why Jarlalxe did well to keep sly suspicion from his face as he replied. "Several, should I choose to let them buy the information that leads to the discovery of such a blade. Why do you ask?"

"You don't have a buyer." Entreri was ever one to cut to the chase, especially when he could manage to do so against Jarlaxle's endless verbal bobbing and weaving. "We get rid of it should it turn out to be like the crystal shard."

Sighing at the assassin's wasteful crusade against psionic items, Jarlaxle nodded. "Only if it turns out to be like the shard, though I doubt it is the same; I can't take another bloody great red dragon. Look at what Casteja has done while he's had the thing. It has taken the man seven years to do what Crenshinibon could do in seven days. I hold no doubts that it is a powerful item, but it obviously moves slowly, if it is the ambitious sort at all."

The two stopped at the top of the hill, just inside the mouth of the small shrine and took their remaining conversation to hand code. They discussed their plans of action quickly, settling on several alternatives, each dependent on various outcomes. The main problem was to ascertain the location of Casteja's mysterious sword and separate it from the man, even if that meant severing his hand in the process.

It was for that reason alone the two had opted to meet Casteja and his people face on, rather than take them in the shadows of the wood.

They didn't have long to wait for the group, both males heard the quiet rustle of their approach before they saw them. Entreri's eyes narrowed as he noted the whisper of Tan's stride and the telltale hobble of what was possibly Casteja's gait. He wouldn't believe his ears until he saw the man with his own eyes. By the sound of the approach the six soldiers with them were hanging back a few yards and splitting into two groups of three to flank the small granite shrine.

Entreri and Jarlaxle exchanged knowing looks; of course Casteja didn't trust them. Why would he? The man had not survived his insurgency for seven years by making stupid mistakes and casual blunders. By the time Tan took the corner at a wide angle, Casteja's tread sounded completely normal. The man looked completely normal, too, though not Chondathan with his pale skin and light eyes.

The first thing the two marked was Casteja Vektch's penetrating blue gaze as it collided with each of them and seized their measure instantly. Casteja was not especially tall, but he was above the average human height. His demeanor seemed deeply serious, which matched the circumstances of their meeting. His hair was dark, likely black, and his pale skin weathered by the elements and battle. Four long scars were struck pinkish silver by available moonlight as they stretched over fine cheek bones from the corner of one eye diagonally toward the sharp angle of his jaw.

Like Entreri, the man was dressed for the heat in a pale sleeveless shirt, though his left forearm was sheathed in a black leather bracer adorned with silver chasing and decorative red fabric drapery. The drapery effectively concealed the man's hand and wrist; which Jarlaxle was certain was to hide the manacle or bracelet he believed was linked to Vritra.

"Artemis Entreri and Drizzt Do'Urden, I presume," Casteja began abruptly, pointedly gazing from Entreri's deceptively relaxed stance to Jarlaxle's playfully insolent bow, which came complete with the doffing of his monstrous hat.

"At your service," Jarlaxle grinned, standing up straight again. He extended his left hand, hoping the man would shake it and thus expose his wrist. Vektch did no such thing, obviously suppressing a wry smirk at the attempt.

"One doesn't shake hands in Chondath," Casteja explained, his tone casual though his wording was not. "Good lord, Do'Urden, I expected a bit more hair than that. Master Tan informs me you cut it due to the heat."

Jarlaxle chuckled, congenial as ever. "Is it so hard to believe?"

Vektch made a noncommittal gesture. "And where is your legendary panther?"

"She is an extraplanar creature," Jarlaxle soothed, "and not a great fan of soggy environments."

Standing with arms crossed conveniently over his weapons, Entreri listened to the conversation closely. It seemed Casteja was doing his best to catch the elusive mercenary in a lie, something not even Menzoberranzan's matron mothers found an easy task.

"And Catti-brie," Vektch smirked, his eyes betraying true amusement, "where is the lovely lady rumored to always be at your side? To be honest, I was more interested in meeting her."

On a certain expansively lecherous level, Jarlaxle could agree with Casteja completely, but he knew he could reintroduce lechery to the conversation after they were on their way to Arrabar, 'bandit captain' in tow. Feigning an intensely pained look, Jarlaxle quickly looked from their mysterious quarry to stone-faced Entreri and back.

"Now _that_ is a tale," he whispered in a confidential tone, red eye darting again to the assassin while he made a cutting motion at his throat, "best not discussed in front of my current partner."

Entreri did not need to pretend in order to add authenticity to Jarlaxle's performance. He turned his head slightly and with a pointed look communicated his desire to strangle the dark elf with the drow's intestines. For a moment the flamboyant male was not sure if the shudder that threatened to run down his spine was the result of a satisfyingly direct hit or a premonition of certain death.

Keeping his eyes on Jarlaxle an extra few beats, Entreri growled, "Are we here to take a job or not? I don't care who dies as long as my price is met." He turned his gray stare on Casteja, emanating nothing but stark seriousness. "You want Eles Wianar. I want a challenge worthy of my talents. Are we at a confluence of interests?"

Vektch's eyes widened slightly, not in surprise or fear, but in interest with a brazen streak of dangerous intent. For a long moment it seemed the leader of the rebellion and the coldhearted assassin would have a staring match.

Jarlaxle was interested in the outcome, but placed his bet on his partner and took advantage of the distraction to stare at Casteja's left wrist. He had noticed the decorative loops of silk hanging over the man's hand move slightly more than once, but not with the weak breeze wafting through the surrounding swamp. As he watched, he was rewarded with the sight of another movement, but what little of Vektch's fingers he could see moved not at all.

Connecting a deep knowledge of magical items with the manacle he had witnessed chaining the sword to Casteja's wrist, the dark elf presumed Vritra had more than one form. Jarlaxle had seen animate jewelry many times, though he found such items too distracting to wear on his person. Mentally, he grimaced, recalling the ropes of stylized tentacles on the sword's hilt and crosspiece. It seemed entirely possible those appendages were writhing around Casteja's wrist, squirming about the huge jewel eye. Why else would the man, bare of ornamentation other than a few earrings, wear the single decorative bracer?

"Just as I am beginning to enjoy a game of verbal cat and mouse," Casteja murmured, declining to further entertain a contest of wills, "I am reminded of the importance of directness." Neither bounty hunter mistook the softness of the man's tone as weakness, if anything they both took his calm as another sign Casteja was a dangerous man. Entreri particularly understood the value of a menacing silence as it was often one of his most useful psychological tactics.

"And being reminded," he said, directing the conversation to Entreri, "tell me directly, what was your involvement with that shipment of healing potions?"

Even though he could trust Entreri to answer wisely, Jarlaxle answered instead. "We were hired in Shamph," the drow explained in complete, deceptive, honesty, "to protect the merchants on the way through Chondalwood. It so happens we were interested in going that way in the hope of meeting one of your representatives. We were much more fortunate than we expected to be, I assure you. We didn't even know there were potions of healing on the caravan or we would have sampled more than the lemon peel."

Casteja's open glance at Tan and the cleric's bare nod confirmed the enchantment to detect lies. Jarlaxle felt a momentary twinge for the cleric; he was not above feeling sympathy for an opponent, especially when he considered the magnitude of the loss. Tan's eyes were fully armored, confirming Jaka's words regarding the man's wife. He made a note to be wary of the cleric lest his loss be converted to momentary, and unpredictable, strength.

On the other hand, Entreri felt no sympathy, experienced no softening of his heart toward the cleric at all. His long held belief was that people were born at the beginning of life, died at the end and usually suffered regardless of morality in the middle. Life was too miserably common to be of much worth. Not long ago, he had killed Dondon, the first of the very few creatures he considered friend. He had also killed old man Basadoni, the only man who had ever inspired vague stirrings of filial emotion within the same period. Having spent most of his life as a finely tuned instrument of death, he placed no value on life and took no stock of the consequences when it was lost. Tan's wife was dead; perhaps the cleric would soon join her. It was an attitude difficult to overcome.

"Have you wittingly had any dealings with Eles Wianar or his general, Ashrei?" Casteja asked, not missing a beat.

Jarlaxle grinned expansively and nudged Entreri, and in doing so pushed the assassin's arm in order to brush the man's hand against the hilt of Charon's Claw. "Do I have to answer everything? Speak up man! Have we ever knowingly had any dealings with Eles Wianar or that general of his?"

"No, we have not," Entreri returned, looking first Tan and then Casteja in the eyes. "Will we now discuss how interested you are in Wianar's death?"

Casteja did not back down from Entreri's gaze the second time, either. He turned his head slightly to capture the sight of Tan's nod, further indication that the enchantment was still in effect. Entreri found the exchange puzzling; Jarlaxle's nudge had hinted that he knew where the sword was located, but the strange thing had yet to venture into his thoughts. Was it too subtle for notice? Was it not reading his mind for Casteja?

As soon as Casteja's gaze was averted for just an abbreviated moment, Entreri shot Jarlaxle a quizzical look. In response, the drow kept his hands casually at waist level but signed, _The sword is on his wrist. I'll take the cleric and then aid you if there are problems._

Entreri made no indication that he had been spoken to, though Casteja surely saw Jarlaxle's subtle hand motions. The assassin tightened his focus on Casteja and Tan as they stood outside the small blackened depths of the shrine. He found it curious that Casteja's face had become a perfectly composed gambler's façade. Perhaps they were about to discuss meaningless particulars of their supposed employment.

Slowly, Casteja shook his head and took a step back from the mouth of the shrine. "This doesn't look good," he sighed. In response to his voice, Entreri and Jarlaxle heard two sets of rushing feet on either side of the shrine. The assassin was not idle during this turn of events. He was distantly grateful he was not obliterated when he called on and received the stoneskin from the Agrach Dyrr insignia.

"I'm afraid you were only half right, Do'Urden." He raised his left hand with the palm facing away from them. Gravity pulled the silk curtain from the back of his hand, revealing the baleful orange stare of a large wet eye gazing out from his flesh. The movements Jarlaxle had witnessed were not slithering tendrils rippling around Casteja's wrist in the form of a bracelet, but underneath his skin. "Kill them."

Entreri and Jarlaxle were instantly revolted by the sight of the eye and movement under Casteja's skin, but both were hardened warriors who would not easily succumb to the element of surprise. They shot into action with singularity of purpose and the sort of teamwork that came from months of fighting in tandem. Forced to fight in the open, Entreri's sword and dagger flew out of their sheathes as he launched himself after Casteja. Just behind him, Jarlaxle was seizing the first of his never-ending supply of throwing daggers to cover the assassin's attack.

Each was intercepted by a pair of the six soldiers Casteja and Tan had brought to flank the shrine as security. The two pairs, coming from either side, were armed with longswords and covered by crossbow wielding back up. Secure in the first layer of the stoneskin spell, Entreri came out brazenly, completely ignoring the crossbow bolt pointed at him in order to quickly dispatch the soldiers immediately before him.

Charon's Claw came on in a powerful arc of ash, crashing against one soldier's sword with an angry shriek of metal on metal and blinding the man with a surprising and sudden face full of thick ash. Despite his surprise at the assassin's unthinkably blunt attack and the unexpected ash, the soldier countered by his blade back relying on his greater strength rather than finesse. He managed to throw Charon's Claw out wide, forcing Entreri's chest open for the inevitable crossbow bolt and finishing blow from his fighting partner.

The crossbow bolt came in exactly as expected, followed by a hard thrust from the second swordsman. The bolt hit Entreri squarely in the middle of his seemingly unarmored chest, as the assassin knew it would, while the blade took him full in the stomach. Entreri was not distracted and he was anything but overmatched by the combination the three soldiers provided him. All he wanted was to get past them to Casteja before Vritra began to unravel his mind in bloody strips. He thrust his jeweled dagger through the screen of ash at the same time he allowed Charon's Claw to be pushed wide. As the crossbow bolt bounced harmlessly off his chest, the dagger was digging deep into one swordsman's ribs; stealing life and savaging lungs.

If he had bothered to look, Entreri would have found horror in the man's eyes as he died; a victim of the metal and magic that comprised the trademark dagger. Looking into the eyes of the dying wasn't the assassin's intention: he came on, shoving the dying man directly into the other soldier. His body was buzzing with excess energy and the fine edge of danger danced across his fingertips as he slid his sword under the arm of the dead man in order to efficiently return the second soldier's gut thrust.

When he turned back he saw the skin of Casteja's hand was already rippling as the evil looking eye closed and ropes of bloody flesh began to erupt from his palm, slithering over each other in a vile orgy of blood and mucus. Growing, surging, rupturing as more tendrils of flesh tore through them, they shot into the air in a column, vaguely resembling a sword. Entreri grit his teeth at the speed of the transformation, but came on swinging Charon's Claw, just as the now jewel-like eye opened amidst the carnage in Casteja's open palm.

Another swift step in his unrelenting charge took him within reach in time to bring his swing to fruition; the devilish blade sliced directly for the column of writhing flesh. As if the bloody ropes were a guttering flame, the tendrils flew wide, laying down in a spasmodic horizontal line as Entreri's blade slaughtered the air above it. Undaunted by the miss, Entreri already had his jeweled dagger in line for a devastating overhand strike aimed for Casteja's left hand.

Casteja was prepared for the attack and seemed undaunted or phased by the whipping tendrils flinging thick fluid in heavy drops all around them. Entreri was far faster than any foe the man had ever encountered and had selected his action accordingly. With the first attacks so powerful and swift that he had little time to react, Casteja relied on the element of surprise; working with Entreri's focus on Vritra as a visual block for his opening salvo. His timing was excellent: the right cross thrust through between Charon's Claw's recovery and under Entreri's left hand, which held the dagger.

The attack was not unexpected, in fact, Entreri welcomed it for the close range it would bring. The punch, thrown by a man who obviously knew how to fight hand-to-hand, came right through Entreri's defenses and headed for his solar plexus.

And struck the stoneskin with enough force to break a lesser man's knuckles.

A grim smile appeared on Entreri's face as pain registered in his opponent's eyes. The dagger made contact with skin and began to sink in. His sense of satisfaction evaporated just as quickly when the first wave of devastating confusion and anguish broke over him.

Entreri's concentration was scattered, but his forward momentum was not arrested; he crashed bodily into Casteja with all the force his compact frame had mustered. They hit the ground in a tangle of flesh and magical steel. Vritra had finally achieved its sword state, but flew from Casteja's hand between being slammed by Entreri and then hitting the ground with equal force. More importantly, the impact also interrupted Vritra's psychic attack.

Their momentum was strong and the hill steep enough that they began to tumble down the incline, initially without control. If Casteja wasn't tripping over Entreri's arms or legs, the chain shackling the sword to the man's wrist was fouling Entreri's attempts to take to his feet. It took the agile assassin throwing himself away bodily to free him from the uncontrolled fall. Entreri kept hold of his own devilish sword the whole way, impaling neither Casteja nor himself.

When he gained his footing, he slammed his dagger back into its sheath and took Charon's Claw up in his left hand, thus freeing up his gauntleted right hand. This was doubly convenient as Casteja displayed strong left-handed tendencies. He had gauged Casteja's skill in their brief exchange and knew he far outclassed the younger man even without the advantage of higher ground. Mainly he needed a free hand for his plan, particularly his right.

Casteja was better off for Entreri's skillful disengagement, and quickly came to his feet, only to fall again when his injured ankle gave out under him. Compensating for his injury, the man rolled again to his feet in time to find a blur of movement descending upon him. Jerking his left hand back hard brought Vritra from the ground and straight into his waiting grasp.

On disadvantaged terrain, against a highly skilled foe with a stoneskin enchantment, while further hampered by a battlefield injury, Casteja's second best option was to choose the better part of valor. His best option was to rely on Vritra to turn his opponent's mind into so much quivering gray goo. He brought the sword to bear, accepting the coming attack with firm determination.

Entreri brought Charon's Claw on in a direct thrust and Casteja brought his sword in line to parry the blow. Both were again surprised when Casteja's sword was uninterested in making physical contact with Charon's Claw. The Netherese blade was repelled as if it were a magnet meeting another of opposing polarity making the duel feel as if they were fighting against air.

Entreri hadn't counted on breaking the sword or running Casteja through with his thrust; he only wanted to get close enough to seize the topaz in his gloved hand. He recovered quickly from the initial surprise of his opponent's odd blade and quickly began to control the give and take of the duel.

As he had thought, Casteja wasn't bad with a blade, but his level of skill was not enough to challenge the assassin, it was only the man's advantage of reach and Entreri's focus on getting through to the sword that drew the combat out for much beyond the initial combinations. He kept working inside Casteja's reach, creating an expanding cage of steel between the two that would soon encompass his enemy's sword hand. His opening came in the same moment Vritra again unleashed a scrambling blast of impulses, pain, and defeated emotion directly into Entreri's mind.

All structure, all cohesion, flew as the man felt a white hot needle of pain stab straight through his head. He was vaguely aware of a body, perhaps his, crashing forward into another, felt the muted sensation of that body react on decades of instinct. In the absence of balance, one hand was grasping through a heavy curtain of agony to catch hold of something to right the frame to which it belonged. Even though that frame was arching back in a constricted pose of blood-bright pain.

An ear shattering screech of metal on metal nearly blistered Entreri's ears as the heavy confusion and mind altering agony faded abruptly to background annoyance. He had somehow body-checked Casteja into one of the crumbling shrines that dotted the hill. Of more relevance was his right hand, which was gripping Casteja's left, fingertips half digging into the amber malevolence of Vritra's suddenly flesh-bound eye. Mind still sluggish from the attack, Entreri could not defend against a hard knee to his groin. Fortunately, the stoneskin lingered. It was not prepared, however, to defend against the entirety of a flurry of savage right-handed uppercuts that battered against it. Two of the strong punches landed, giving Entreri the harsh benefit of four knuckles against either side of his jaw.

"Rot!" Casteja freed his left hand and shoved Entreri away. With his best option questionable, Casteja Vektch followed the code of battle that had served him well for many years: when the enemy is too strong, retreat. Though his head was again rattled, this time by the solid punch, Entreri recovered quickly and darted down the hill and into the swamp, his head clearing minutely with every step.

The fleeing Casteja was not a quiet phenomenon; he had abandoned stealth for speed. Entreri did not fault the man for this preference; Casteja was smart enough to know he simply couldn't be quiet enough or traceless enough to evade the master assassin. The man knew not only Entreri's reputation, but he had taken warnings from his highly perceptive cleric; a man that was no stranger to conflict.

He crashed through brush, his main advantage being knowledge of the terrain. Quick-witted and perceptive though he was, Entreri was not at home in the morass he found himself leaping through. It was thanks to the moonlight and his shade attributes that he was able to see the clever leaps and bounds his quarry made as he endured the excruciating pain of a sprained ankle to keep to the most stable surfaces on the treacherous ground. Were it not for his improved night vision, Entreri had little doubt that he would have had to rely on the sound of Casteja's footsteps to guess the proper footing.

As it was, he could see the man ahead, his powerful gait unstable thanks to his battlefield injury. There was no telling how soon it would be before Casteja's ankle would give out, but Entreri wasn't willing to give Vritra the time to recover from whatever shock his gauntlet had given it. He was smaller than Casteja, but much faster on his two uninjured legs. A burst of speed, perhaps a touch of recklessness, and the assassin closed enough distance that he was getting hit with much of the brush swinging back into place from his prey's passing.

Entreri slammed Charon's Claw back in its sheath as he gained, freeing his hands for his next move. The light impacts of his feet on moist but stable ground picked up again as he built up a little more speed and threw himself forward. The plan was to tackle the man by the knees, but Casteja's ankle gave out in almost the same instant, sending him down in a hard descent. Entreri ended up slamming into the man's back, pounding him awkwardly into a fallen tree and flipping them both over the top.

Twisting like a cat, Entreri managed to save himself from the bulk of the impact with the ground. His opponent was less wiry, but definitely an old hand to such a situation; Entreri could feel the man's body shift to minimize the collision. Casteja hit the ground with less grace than Entreri, but with minimal damaged, especially in light of the sort of terrain the two were thrown in.

The assassin found himself sliding out of control when his feet hit the thick gray mud and slid nearly three meters before coming to a stop and sinking knee deep in sucking muck. Half his opponent's body was claimed when he landed sideways, favoring his bad leg. The man struggled to his knees before making it to his feet. He came up coated in sludge from one shoulder to the opposite hip and wiped his right hand off on his opposite bicep. Entreri noted Casteja was chuckling slightly at the situation.

Fighting knee deep in mud was an experience Entreri had never encountered, but he didn't expect it to inconvenience him enough to cause him to throw the coming fight. He stared at Casteja for a moment. "You find this funny?" It only took a few words to remind him that Jaka had split his lip earlier in the night and learn that Casteja had knocked his jaw out of joint moments earlier.

Casteja nodded, "This is the second time today I've had the occasion to be clothed in mud. I'm satisfied to report I have not collected any injuries this time."

"That will change," Entreri growled, advancing on the man slowly, but faster than the wounded man could escape.

"Sounds like rot to me," the other man replied nonchalantly. "Don't make me wait, man; I'm still possessed of several measures of the impatience of youth."

Entreri ignored Casteja's remarks, especially the latter which smacked of an outright lie in light of Jarlaxle's psychoanalysis. He did not advance any faster as he was trying to get used to the characteristics of the mud sucking at his every move and challenging the firmness of his balance.

In preparation Casteja did not call overtly on Vritra, but raised his fists in a style and confident attitude that bespoke a man trained in hand-to-hand combat. His stance was certainly fouled by mud and injury, but Entreri didn't find the ready position familiar. Everything about Casteja Vektch, from his sentence structure to his fighting skills, was foreign.


	8. collateral damage

**Witchwolf**: Poor Kim, he has his work cut out for him. Glad you liked the fight scene because I actually went back and had to insert things into it. The fight scenes in this chapter may not be as good as they are gratuitous.  
**Alzadea**: I wanted to get into why Jaka called for his mother, but I realized I can't do it in the scope of this story. Suffice to say it is actually very twisted. Oh, and you mentioned why the swords did not connect. Glad you noticed. I know Vritra is freakish, but would you want Charon's Claw touching you, if you were Vritra?  
**Ariel**: It took me eight chapters, but I finally got mud wrestling! I'm ecstatic! As for Jarlaxle, I think you'll find it worth the wait. That, or you'll kill me.  
**hakatri**: Heh, no it was one of my goals for this fic to get Entreri into a mud wrestling-type match. If only I could have gotten him shirtless to do it… I must apologize to my male readers for this. If I have any. Glad the sword is disturbing: it will get worse before it gets better. And we'll see about Jaka next chapter.

_A/N: Among other things, I studied boxing for this chapter. There are fun things in here, but the execution of this chapter is not up to my usual standards. I strive to stay true to canon, so there are precedents for some of the things I bring up in this chapter (things I tried to avoid, actually). _

_**Edit**: Somehow a couple important paragraphs were deleted from this file before I uploaded it! So this is the first time I have ever replaced a chapter at ff dot net. I've rewritten the part where Jarlaxle oddly seems to _run away_ from two soldiers. _

* * *

"_You walk before you crawl,  
__you talk before you scream…  
__Man eats man eats bacillus eats host"  
-_SPK, G_round Zero: Infinity Dose_

_collateral damage_

If not for Casteja's injured ankle, which greatly reduced his balance and mobility, Entreri supposed the match would be even less in his favor. The moment Entreri stepped into Casteja's longer reach he found he had to retaliate as quickly and viciously as possible. Where the man was a competent swordsman, he was an expert fist fighter; a fact punctuated with hard knuckled jabs that came in to batter the assassin's forearms in order to soften him up. Wading into the attack Entreri was hard pressed to protect his face and chest. His alacrity saved his head and torso from severe punishment, but the impacts connecting with his arms nearly gave him second thoughts about pursuing Casteja without sword or dagger.

As strong as Casteja's jabs were, the assassin knew they were nowhere near as powerful as the rest of the man's physical arsenal. The two uppercuts he'd taken had rattled his mind, though not as strongly as Vritra. What he really wanted was get close enough to tackle the man yet again, in order to seize the monstrous psionic creature living in Castaja's skin and kill or neutralize it with his red stitched glove. The attempt would have to be made amidst the downpour of powerful punches his opponent was raining down on him.

The assassin's forearms were fast becoming overcast with bruises and growing unpleasantly numb. Entreri's return swings focused on Casteja's left side, doing his effective best to score hits against the back of the man's hand. He finally made a connection, thanks to the slick sweat covering the two men in a thin film: his gloved knuckles glanced over Casteja's and slammed into the dilated eye on the back of the man's hand.

The impact triggered a flurry of rippling underneath Casteja's skin, which the man reacted to with a flinch and grimace. It was all the opening in the flawless offensive Entreri needed. He threw himself bodily against Casteja for the third time that evening, planning to get inside the man's reach and grab the malevolent eye.

As with the other times Entreri tackled Casteja, things did not go according to plan. Slogging through mud was not an optimal practice for hand-to-hand fighting and even if Casteja was used to the environment, his injured ankle was little more than useless. Entreri, of course, had little experience fighting in such sloppy terrain. They went down again, this time both landed sidelong in the mire, pitched half deep in the mud.

Entreri found that keeping a grip on somebody slicked with mud was just as difficult as holding onto an opponent covered in oil. His hold on his opponent quickly dissolved. He struggled to retake it and in the next instant his chest was rocked with a solid blow that splattered mud from his solar plexus across his right shoulder.

The strike was stunning and had the unnerving affect of suspending Entreri's breathing for a second and dropping his fists against his will. It was long enough for Casteja to wrap his arms around Entreri's arm and ribs and fling him down into the thick mud. At first, the assassin thought Casteja was trying to squeeze the air out of his lungs, but when he felt his body sinking beneath the surface of the mud with their combined weight, the truth of the tactic became obvious. Having grown up in a desert environment, there was much lore on the hideous death that suffocating in sand could bring; suffocating in mud seemed no less thrilling.

Ever the professional, Entreri did not panic. He noted that Casteja would have the same difficulty holding him in the mud. The important thing was to keep his face above surface for the simple matter that mud in his eyes was a disadvantage he could ill afford. He put up a token struggle, felt Casteja's remarkably strong grip tighten in response, and then snapped his head out of the mud in to slam his forehead against the man's grim face.

His skull made a hard impact against Casteja's mouth. He felt teeth slice into his forehead with the attack, but was far more aware of the break in pressure around his ribs. Doing his best to get a leg underneath him to keep him from descending further in the mire, Entreri brought the other between his body and Casteja's and shoved with all his might.

Held fast in the possessive mire as they both were, Entreri's kick did not lift his opponent from the sucking terrain, but it did throw him over in the opposite direction. Casteja lifted himself shakily to his knees and tried to lean away from the approaching assassin to buy a moment to clear his head. The lower height of the man's head and his momentary lack of clarity enabled Entreri to step forward and deliver an uppercut of devastating proportions. The man fell back in an arc given lift by the powerful blow under his chin and hit the mud with less ability at conscious thought than before. Entreri was on the senseless man in a second; he was certain a man familiar with such a skilled form of primal combat must be skilled in making quick recoveries.

They were a bizarre sight with clothes looking like nothing so much as wet skin adhered to their bodies with gray slime. Their skin was painted with sweat and mud and their dark hair was half gray and plastered to their necks or stringy with drying muck. Casteja's charcoal pants and black boots were entirely gray as was most of his pale shirt. Entreri was equally sheathed in viscous mud; though patches of black showed on his thighs and chest, his entire back was covered. He could feel the wet dirt dripping down the back of his sleeveless shirt.

Their faces were remarkably free of grime, but were hardly spotless. Entreri's forehead was bleeding as copiously as any head wound could be expected. Casteja's mouth was bloody from the same impact; his teeth had savaged more than the assassin's forehead, his lower lip was gashed wide.

Despite the mud coating their arms, Entreri put Casteja's left in an arm lock and moved to grip his hand. Even as he began to do so, Vritra's wet eye gazed up out of the mud with a blink of clear eyelids.

Rooted in Casteja's hand as it was, it had no mobility, no movement beyond dilation. It stared in whatever direction the hand was facing. Entreri had the strong impression the eye's unnerving orange stare had little to do with its true sight.

It was time for a plan he half expected to fail. Moving quickly and with no small amount of self confidence, Entreri wiped his gauntlet off on his cheek, the last area of clean skin he could rely on. He could feel blood from the cut on his forehead dripping off his brow, between his eyes and running down either side of his nose.

He pulled the gauntlet off inside out and began to pull it over Casteja's fingers all the while wondering when Vritra's mind blasts would begin. Those blasts had not been frequent, but they were consuming. The inevitable hit him suddenly with unmitigated violence: Entreri was suddenly wracked with mind consuming agony as the creature retaliated against the assassin's actions.

Agony, confusion, and debilitating delusions suddenly crammed inside Entreri's mind beyond his capacity to contain; the excess exploded along his synapses. The psionic attack of before was nothing compared to what was suddenly unleashed on the assassin's mind. He didn't have any comprehension that his body was arching back and away from the creature, though he continued to hold Casteja in the arm lock. There was no sense of the guttural roar of instinctual defiance that issued from his throat.

He had no idea that he was not continuing to push the inside out glove down his opponent's fingers. There was nothing but a sense of utter chaos as his mind was given the same treatment as his gauntlet: it was being turned inside out and stretched over foreign fingers. There was the impression of being rushed through wet, pink, gripping flesh. The impression of teeth that ripped amorphous flesh open only to release more that pressed down on him and vomited him from one horror to another.

And then there were the disturbing impressions clawed wholesale from his mind, limned with pain that refracted from every scintillating surface. A jeweled landscape of horrifyingly nuanced emotion the assassin had intentionally cauterized long ago. He was emotionally impaired thanks to his own efforts, but Vritra easily rolled back the armor crucial to his early existence.

From the depths of his recent past he was forced through visions of bloated Dondon, pressure from the depression and apathy of a pointless existence, denial of lavender eyes and their damning superiority, scene of humiliation upon humiliation in the lightless depths of Menzoberranzan, continuing backwards toward the miserable beginning of his life. And perhaps where his life began it would also end and in the middle, as he predicted, there would be only excruciating suffering regardless of morality.

-

Even before Casteja had ordered his soldiers to kill the two bounty hunters, Jarlaxle had been sweating. The heat and humidity were to blame, but as soon as he and Entreri had burst into action, it became clear to the wily dark elf that activity would only bring more drenching perspiration. His first concern had been the cleric of Chauntea and though he had hoped to spare Tan, his duty to pragmatism had yielded a different conclusion. As the most dangerous of the Chondathans other than Casteja himself, the cleric was the first opponent on his agenda.

The man was just as impressive as Jarlaxle expected him to be; in the midst of calling on his deity's divine power, he saved himself from two daggers to the face by bringing up his arm. The daggers bit hard and deep, but Tan's prayer was not interrupted.

It was all the more regretful when the cleric's eyes became glassy and his lips faltered.

Jarlaxle would not have understood the situation if Jaka had not told him that Vritra often disrupted the cleric's thoughts when he called on his deity. Not one throw away an opportunity no matter how curious or unexpected, the drow flung several more daggers and rushed past Entreri's back, right behind his thrown daggers to close the distance between he and Tan. The first dagger took the cleric at the base of his throat, in the soft hollow formed by his clavicles. The second and third thudded into the same general area. The fourth and fifth sped past Tan completely to sink into the unsuspecting crossbow soldier taking aim on Entreri's back as he swung Charon's Claw on Casteja.

With no intention of colliding with the stunned and soon dead cleric, Jarlaxle ran past him, but reached his hand out wide to grasp the man's face and wheel him around as a deterrent to the crossbow wielding soldier aiming for him. Drow, like all elves, were renowned for their agility and speed and while Jarlaxle was exceptional even for his kind, he was not faster than a trigger finger.

His cloak of displacement went far to protect him, but the range was tight. The crossbow bolt impacted harshly with the dark elf's side as he began to bring Tan around as protection. If not for Jaka's tailoring, Jarlaxle would not have gotten away with much worse than the numbing impact that immediately burst veins and capillaries outside the male's ribcage. His skin was not broken badly, but the blow was still brutal and he had to catch his breath.

Blood was pouring from Tan's mouth and nose, but he did not die quickly. Eyes narrowed in hate, he made the most of his last moments. He seized one of the daggers from his arm and proved in his dying moments that he was no slouch with a blade. Full of adrenaline and vengeance the cleric carved up the air all around the ducking and weaving Jarlaxle.

As he dodged, Jarlaxle dropped a globe of darkness over the archer and limned the advancing two soldiers with faerie fire to buy time. He knew he needed to end the conflict quickly if he wanted to back Entreri up in the battle with Casteja. Tan was certainly complicating the matter by fighting on.

"Master Tan!" The dark elf exclaimed, barely avoiding a dagger intent on his throat. "You are over half a century of age, most humans would be happy enough to move on at your age!"

The next swing was born of renewed rage, but also failed to connect: Tan's legs gave out and his knees slammed into the ground. The cleric's eyes did not give up the flame of his anger, his desire for vengeance for his wife. But death was not his to deny; the cleric fell forward.

Jarlaxle felt for the man, but he was already pointing a wand in the direction of his globe of darkness. A glob of viscous goo flew from the tip and disappeared into the globe. A muffled sound of metal against stone announced what he had counted on. The globe dissipated to reveal the soldier with the crossbow splattered against a blackened wall inside the small shrine.

None too soon, for the remaining soldiers had apparently gotten over their initial panic at being 'set on fire.' The two were coming at the drow without fear. As they made their approach, Jarlaxle surveyed the hilltop. Entreri's opponents were dead, but neither the assassin nor insurgent leader was present. He was not moving fast enough.

Backing up on the run from the charging soldiers, Jarlaxle reached within his high cut vest and from a shallow inner pocket produced a slender wand that did not seem as if it could possibly fit within it. Within Chondath's borders, magic was mistrusted and made uncommon appearances, but the two soldiers were not totally ignorant of such implements. They skidded to a stop and began to separate.

"I've a love story to conclude," Jarlaxle hissed by way of apology and discharged the first blast of lightning. It took the soldier directly in the chest and sent her dancing in the macabre gyrations of electrocution.

The other soldier, wiser than he was brave, opted to take flight, but Jarlaxle who knew the importance of leaving no prisoners in this case, took instant aim on his retreating back and let fly one of the wands remaining charges. "And love waits for no one."

Spurred by the knowledge that Entreri was mostly defenseless against most of the sword's mental attacks, Jarlaxle ran down the hill at breakneck speed. His footfalls were light and agile and ate distance at an incredible rate as he dodged undergrowth and the weathered remains of random shrines as he went. His sharp hearing picked up the sounds of a scuffle, but no metal on metal, near the base of the hill where the lack of drainage transformed the area into soupy terrain that made footing dangerous.

He trusted Entreri implicitly when it came to the man's combat skills, but the absence of clashing metal worried him. He knew Entreri was a skilled combatant with or without a weapon in his hands, but hand-to-hand combat took much longer and they had agreed that time was not on their side. Mental attacks came far faster than even a crossbow bolt.

A bellow of strangled pain and defiance rose from the base of the hill. Jarlaxle's jaw tightened and unknown to him, his pace quickened to a reckless pace. The branches raked his clothing and tore the purple hat from his head, but he did not stop nor slow his gait.

He saw the two immediately, half swallowed in gray mud, Entreri frozen in the act of pulling his prized gauntlet over the taller man's hand. At first the sight horrified the drow, but then the genius of the move struck him; Kimmuriel had studied and reported to him on the properties of the item. It foiled magic and psionics alike, though Kimmuriel had found he could use his mind powers on the assassin before the man could react to them. Wrapping up a psionic creature or magic item could work as long as the target in question was not an item of Crenshinibon's magnitude. At least that's what they were both counting on.

The dark elf put the thought aside and ran straight for them. Using the fallen tree they had hit previously to give him an extra lead off, Jarlaxle leapt toward them. As Entreri before him, the running leap resulted in an initial skidding on the surface of the mud, but soon he was sinking down into the distasteful morass.

-

Entreri was in two places he did not want to be. Distantly, so very distantly, he felt he was ensconced in a lukewarm prison of wet flesh that sucked his arms out wide from his torso and his legs straight down. His head was hanging forward, chin hitting his collar as he leaned forward from his mostly upright position. Fluid dripped slowly from his cheek where only moments before a slithering coil had explored with lingering, perhaps absent, interest. In that far away place, he stared at the inside of his eyelids, knowing that if he were to open them he would only see a vast hall that looked nothing so much as a cavern-sized scene of a dog's split belly. He did not feel time passing, just an eternity in a living landscape with a huge baleful orange eye that stared out from over his shoulder.

Simultaneously, in the harsher world of memories rifled and shifted, Entreri was wracked with pain as Theebles Royuset chuckled before him. His mentor from the Basadoni guild was a cruel and twisted man. Entreri had never feared him, but he knew the man was as cunning and powerful a task master he could ever have. Royuset cut a physically slothful and unimposing figure, with his ample girth spilling over his belt and hampering his every move. Despite his physical limitations, his mind was quick and his mouth just as ready to demean and discipline his charges as to receive massive amounts of rich food.

Royuset hated Artemis Entreri with the passion of a man that knows his better in its larval stage. Young, graceful, spare of form and swift of body, and with hardened discipline unlike anything the guild had seen before, Entreri was everything the self-indulgent lieutenant was not. Too lazy to lash the boy for disrespect, he watched in glee as he instructed a guild enforcer in the fine art of employing a whip to its fullest potential. Punishment was something he excelled at especially, for his cruelty was fueled by an impassioned and creative mind.

"Under the arms, my good woman, the skin is thin and the nerves sensitive. The stomach rather than the back; the skin is much the same. Any part of the body sensitive to a passionate caress is perfect for the whip's kiss. The palms of the hands, especially the fingertips, for a thief. The soles of the feet for a coward. And for our defiant little worm? Do you have the skill to strike that insolent mouth?"

While the youth's body radiated a grid of pain, it was his pride that took the most punishment. He had no control, no power to free himself or to seize the whip and strangle Royuset's fleshy neck. The worst part was knowing that the moment he was released, nothing would change. He would fall to the floor on all fours where he would be constrained by the guild's rigid hierarchy instead of the shackles around his thin wrists.

The young man shook burning sweat from his cold gray eyes and bit his tongue to prevent any outbursts as the whip cracked against his flesh. The sound of the leather striking his stomach resounded up his body to his ears. He glared at Royuset meaningfully; he would sooner die than be a slave of any institution, illegal or otherwise. Before he knew how to kill, he disregarded the rigid hierarchy of his family and ran away. Now… now his hands knew the taste of blood and while he did not particularly care for the flavor, he liked swallowing his self worth even less.

Another memory bubbled up from the depths of his beleaguered mind, it was old and faded but just as much a part of him as the clear picture of his hand ripping through Drizzt's rippling flesh under Kimmuriel's strange power. He was crossing the Calimshan desert under the blistering gaze of the merciless sun. It did not seem unusual that the sun was slit down the center with an ellipse of black. Nor was it unusual that a particular shifty-eyed man in the caravan was again offering him water from his skin. Artemis hated those skins. It was the way they were shaped, the way the water could be sprayed from them with a hard squeeze on the bag's leather. He even hated the color of the tanned skins they were made from. What he hated most was how the old man stared if he caught a glance of the young boy bringing a skin to his mouth.

The old man offered to hold it while Artemis drank, but the boy shook his head. "But you must be thirsty. Thirst… is never kind. Are you not hot out here? Come into my wagon; it is shaded and there are dates and apricots."

"I don't like dates and apricots."

Just as quickly as the scene of his flight across the Calimshan desert came, it faded and was replaced by an even earlier memory, one that felt more dreamlike than any of the others. More than any other, this scene did not seem to belong to him.

Artemis leaned against the inner edge of the metal basin his mother and maid used to wash clothes, dishes, and other items. He felt sick and dreamy. His mother's cool hands were a balm on his hot skin. She washed the blood from the corner of his mouth and ran her fingers through the snarls in his black hair. They were not like a man's hands, but they were not unused to housework or kneading dough. Neither hand had ever been lifted against him.

He wanted to smile at her, even though his face hurt, but he could only watch her hands. The soft gray eyes that had once watched the world inside his home were dazed with muted understanding. Harsh understanding that bled into his betrayed heart. She had heard him screaming and she had not come. He had begged her to help and protect him and she had remained beyond the door. Her hands did not rise to strike him or to force him to do things that he knew were unnatural; her hands simply did not come up to defend him. Now they were red with his blood, just like his father's or his uncle's.

Though her eyes were filled with tears, not unlike the basin was filled with water, young Artemis looked at his mother through a suffocating shroud of emptiness and felt nothing. Because feeling nothing was preferable to the betrayal that previously constricted his young heart.

-

With one swift jerk, Jarlaxle seized the glove in Entreri's hand and pulled it up over Casteja's, covering the eye completely. In response, the assassin's rigid body went limp and fell back into the mud.

Casteja's reaction was equally swift: a solid right cross collided with Jarlaxle's face; four bare knuckles and a few hundred pounds of pressure versus one angular cheekbone. The dark elf instinctually rolled with the sharp blow but still felt and heard the dull crack of bone. Far smaller and lighter than Entreri, Jarlaxle was thrown to the limit of Casteja's reach. He would have fallen further, but he knew Entreri's mental health depended on Vritra remaining sheathed in the gauntlet. His hands remained anchored to Casteja's wrist.

The human could work with that: he hauled the extremely dazed dark elf in by retracting his left arm, ready to bludgeon Jarlaxle again with his free hand. Jarlaxle was, by no means, defenseless or anything less than a tightly muscled package of enduring drow flesh, but it was hard to coordinate his muscles after a vicious blow to the face. Taking advantage of Casteja's strength, he allowed himself to be dragged in. As the man's right fist drew back to deliver another punishing blow, the dark elf gauged the man's stance and drove his leg through the mud and struck Casteja's injured leg with the hard edge of his boot heel.

Casteja had relied on what little bracing he could get from the thick mud that came up to his knees, but nothing could save his balance from Jarlaxle's attack. The ankle collapsed on him again. Instinctually, he grabbed at the dark elf as he fell to one knee, hoping to pull him down with him. It was a logical and intelligent move and as such, anticipated by the experienced dark elf. He let Casteja pull him down, but at the end of the descent, the man found a dagger point pressing menacingly against the bone at the outer lip of his left eye socket.

"The notice promised payment if you were alive," Jarlaxle commented, his helpful tone belied by the assurance of pain in his uncovered crimson eye. "It said nothing about being in one piece."

The man sighed. "Intimidation, then? Save your brea—"

Jarlaxle took the man up on his advice before another word left Casteja's abused mouth. Moving far swifter than a mortal man, Jarlaxle reversed the blade and slammed the pommel forcefully behind the man's ear. Remarkably, it took a second blow before Casteja actually conceded to the darkness of unconsciousness.

"Sweet Lady Lolth," the mercenary exclaimed under his breath, though the human male was no longer listening. "Are you so used to blows to the head?" Considering the way he fought, Jarlaxle supposed that was not an unlikely prospect. The few times he'd witnessed such a primal form of fighting, it involved quite a few blows to the head. Frowning, he lifted a muddy hand to his swelling cheek and winced at the pain and prospect of damage.

Moving quickly, he dragged the larger male through the mud and threw him over the fallen log he had used to leap into the fray only moments prior. He turned back to remark on how to keep the glove on Casteja's hand and was surprised to see Entreri's shoulders hardly clearing the surface of the mud pit. The assassin's face was covered in blood and dirt, but neither material did anything to hide his remarkably confused expression.

Concern moved Jarlaxle to slog back through the mud toward his partner when the man began to slowly list to one side. Black hands gloved in gray mud slipped under Entreri's arms before he fell over. Jarlaxle didn't fancy losing the assassin to such an ignoble end, especially after proving his cunning yet again with the gauntlet scenario.

Unfortunately, steadying the man didn't improve his situation much more than keeping him from suffocating in the morass. Another stab of concern wormed through his inconstant heart when he saw Entreri's expression had not changed from the same configuration of confusion. He sank into a crouch behind the assassin and tried to get a grip around his waist to help him upright.

The human did not react; he was only so much dead weight. Lifting a dripping gray hand, Jarlaxle turned Entreri's head to get a better look at one of his dark eyes. The assassin blinked a few times and shook his head slowly, as if carefully trying to shake his thoughts back in line. The reaction made it clear he was fighting his confusion.

The dark look Jarlaxle cast Casteja's direction was all the more menacing for its rare appearance. Jarlaxle was no slouch; he knew Entreri was struggling against the mental damage Casteja and his sword had inflicted on him. Thinking as quickly as ever, he began concocting various remedies for the confusion his partner was struggling against.

"Artemis," the dark elf commanded forcefully, "focus outside yourself. The damage is internal, so look out and say something."

"I hate you."

"That's a good start." The nihilistic response gave Jarlaxle hope the bleary assassin was pulling his mind together. If he had the assassin's attention, it seemed the next step was to get him to order his thoughts. "You need to organize your thoughts and the best way to do that is to tell me how to do something. Tell me…" Hundreds of things came to mind; from tying knots to preparing for a hit, but the notion that came out of his mouth seemed the most entertaining. "Tell me how to make coffee."

The man shook his head, sending dried curves of muddy hair to scrape against the blood congealed on his forehead. "Coffee…?"

"Yes, how do you make coffee?"

Entreri's responses became stronger aas he considered the outlandish request. After a pause the assassin asked for clarification. "Which kind?"

"You know how to make more than one kind?" The drow exclaimed, intrigued by this hidden insight. As hinted at their first day in Chondath, his traveling companion seemed to be closet coffee connoisseur. "The kind you know best."

"You need green coffee beans," Entreri began without preamble, sitting up out of Jarlaxle's arms on his own strength. "It takes all day to roast them. When they are blonde, you grind them and the cardamom seeds… if the seeds aren't already ground."

"Cardamom?" Jarlaxle snorted, "No perfume? I was sure there was perfume!"

"You're thinking of Calishite coffee," Entreri explained, a hint of impatience beginning to awaken in his sleepy tone. "Once it is ground and the cardamom added, you boil it three times... Depending on what is available, you strain it through either a green cornstalk or palm; both capture and keep the remains of the beans, but not their flavor. Palm tastes better."

"I haven't had this kind of coffee," Jarlaxle mused good-naturedly. "In Arrabar we can get some of those green coffee beans and you can make it, since you like it so much."

The assassin's head rose only a quarter of an inch and tilted to the side, but it was enough to showcase the cold stare he fixed on Jarlaxle. "I hate Memnon coffee. I'd sooner grind you down and boil your remains three times than make it ever again. The mere smell turns my stomach."

Jarlaxle's fine white eyebrows drew high on his face. "Why did you make it if you hate it so much?"

"Why are we in this vile country?" Entreri shot back, his mind sharpening alongside his temper.

The angry response was not lost on Jarlaxle; Entreri was inexplicably aggressive and uncommunicative on some topics the dark elf assumed had something to do with the strange man's secretive past. Such topics interested Jarlaxle like no other, for he found the assassin a pleasingly complex puzzle. There was no telling what was at the heart of Artemis Entreri, because it was always hard to determine if anything existed in a void.

"Fun and profit," he smiled as he stood up and offered Entreri a hand. He accepted Entreri's deflection for what it was. He was aware Entreri suspected he had an ulterior motive to their journey. The assassin was correct, of course, but the mercenary had no compunctions about keeping Entreri in the dark. He was only tempted to reveal his intentions because he thought the trade would be in his favor; a secret of small worth to Jarlaxle for a secret of greater worth from Entreri. But he had cheated the assassin enough over the years of their association to turn another selfish profit off the man.

"Let's go," Entreri snorted, struggling to stand. He pointedly ignored Jarlaxle's outstretched hand. "The promise of profit has outlived any notion of fun."

Despite his protestations of health, Entreri had no luck pulling Casteja from the mud nor inclination to attempt scaling the hill's incline. He was so utterly drained that Jarlaxle opted to go alone to retrieve Jaka and their belongings from where they had hidden them. On his return, slender lad over one shoulder and Entreri's traveling gear over the opposite, he found the assassin had made himself busy wrapping a highly flexible length of wire around his red stitched gauntlet. The knots and adjustments the assassin made seemed sensible and efficient, for all his ingenious fingers were working in slow motion.

"We should find something for you to kill with that wonderful dagger of yours," Jarlaxle commented amiably as he set Jaka down and offered Entreri his belongings.

The assassin gazed blankly at his worn leathers and weatherproof cloak before knocking his knuckles upside the back of Casteja's head. He took the items with the same absent look. "I don't want him to wake before I'm done."

Adjusting his hat more securely on his head since retrieving it from the brush, the dark elf fixed an inquisitive eye on his traveling partner but said nothing about the man's behavior. "We need to leave as soon as possible; Casteja's people are much better equipped than we are. And if that female, Narbeli, still has feelings for him, we need to be out of the forest immediately."

Entreri's head lowered in lieu of a full fledged nod. "Before you heal his ankle, I need to secure his arm. Then he can be our pack animal."

Jarlaxle didn't need Entreri to tell him something they had already planned, but appreciated the man's words as proof of his progressive recovery. "You aren't done securing the gauntlet?"

Picking up one of the sleeves he had unfastened from the shirt Jaka had sewn for him, Entreri nodded carefully. "Almost. Has the boy's mind returned?"

Jarlaxle considered the question while Entreri began slapping off the thick patches of mud dried on their prisoner's arm. "He's become catatonic. Kimmuriel is going to have to speed his recovery."

"Didn't you once tell me Menzoberranzan's fourth house is actually run by a lich?" Entreri's eyes were narrowed on his work, sliding the sleeve over the gauntlet and up Vektch's arm,. "Do psionics affect the undead?"

The smile that came to Jarlaxle's bruised face was an expression of pure relief. The assassin was obviously back on his mental feet. "Do you fear for Kimmuriel over our poor boy?"

Tightening the straps the way he wanted them and reaching into a muddy belt pouch for a lock as added protection, Entreri shrugged. "No, I'm simply trying to imagine the look on his face when you tell him you broke the boy. The modifying factor is how much Kimmuriel has to fear from Agrach Dyrr."

"Doesn't look good for my dear associate," the mercenary chuckled, "does it? I didn't give him control of Bregan D'aerthe for no reason. Even without the rare gift of mind magic, he is extraordinarily gifted with intellect and savvy. Perhaps his choice of allies in the past has been questionable, but he remains a loyal one. It is in his best interests, of course, to be so."

The assassin nodded and dropped Vektch's arm and the conversation. "He's all yours." Entreri turned away and began digging at the moist mud stuck in the nooks and crannies of his two magical weapons rather than taking any notice of the mud caked to his clothes and body. His body heat had quickly dried the mud on his person and it cracked and powdered with his every move. His mind was not moving as sluggishly as before, but he found he was seizing on myriad thoughts in an erratic fashion.

He tried to focus on his weapons. With all the nagging questions encroaching on his consciousness, he found comfort in the welcome familiarity of his weaponry. Unsheathing the blades, he brought them through a graceful dance apart and around each hand. Patiently and with the instinctual precision that came from years of practiced ambidexterity, he brought his hands, and the blades, into tighter circuits.

The only beauty he had ever acknowledged in the world was the meaningful dance of cold steel that carved his rules into the world around him.

His hands were so close that the smallest miscalculation would tangle them and yet he even began to send his hands into intersecting spirals. The shorter reach of the dagger was often just shy of the assassin's arm, where a layer of dried mud was not adequate protection. Even so, when the intricate dance was not enough to clear the fog and disruptive impulses from his mind, he began to increase the speed.

Entreri took the blades and his skill to the very edge; pushed against the unseen enemy that his mind had become. His hands were a blur; all that remained of the blade was the red geometric shapes Charon's Claw hung in the air with the swiftness of it passing. In counterpoint, the emerald studded dagger was a vague tracery of flashing green concentric circles.

His solitary dance brought him the reprieve that came from intense concentration. Sensing the exercise would do little else to focus his mind, the assassin timed a risky extraction of his blades, pulling them apart in twin arcs without inflicting any wounds on himself. He brought the blades out wide, their arcs absorbing the energy of their speed, and swung them up like a hunting bird spreading its wings. He then directed them down, slamming both into their sheathes in one fluid motion.

The sudden workout left him feeling drained again, but not so much that he did not feel the eyes on his back. Jerking his head right and then left to loosen muscles in his shoulders and neck, Entreri turned around to find not only Jarlaxle's sly face, but the pale blue eyes of Casteja Vektch watching with subtle appreciation. His gray eyes took in the gag Jarlaxle had fitted their prisoner with as well as the hobbled wrists.

Entreri simply collected his traveling cloak and slung his pack over his shoulders. "Take care moving the boy around," Entreri ordered Casteja in a cold tone of voice. "I don't mind breaking your fingers if you prove clumsier than we find believable."

Jarlaxle chuckled at this statement, though Casteja affected an unimpressed attitude and made no attempt to communicate. "Artemis, really, such a show of concern over our young friend. If you aren't going to become a paladin will you at least be a champion of the young, endearing, and defenseless?"

"Hardly," Entreri snorted, shaking his head in disgust.

"Come now," Jarlaxle continued in his teasing tone. "With all the death in this land there will surely be legions of orphans; we could take one in that could light that cold lump of coal you call a heart."

"Splendid idea," the assassin replied, causing Jarlaxle to raise an eyebrow in inquiry. "You never know when we'll get hungry."

Jarlaxle chuckled gaily at the assassin's implied suggestion; it seemed the assassin was getting back to normal. But as the man lifted Jaka's limp body into Vektch's arms, the dark elf read more into Entreri's grim demeanor. The gray eyes that seemed to accuse the world just as surely as it accused him, were not as focused as before. He considered his partner furtively and wondered exactly what the sword had done to him and if the man would continue to recover.


	9. verbal reconnaissance

**Alzadea**: Rereading is the highest form of flattery in my book. Prepare for more details.  
**hakatri**: The worst baggage is always the kind you can't see and there is an awful lot of it between the lot of them.  
**Ariel**: I added the exercise bit as afterthought and nod to Witchwolf, but it did work in really well and I'm glad it was well received.  
**Witchwolf**: Casteja couldn't beat Entreri quickly in a fist fight, but then Entreri would be smart enough not to play to Casteja's advantages. But it really wouldn't look good if Casteja landed many punches. Heavyweight boxers can pack over a ton of force behind their punches! Casteja isn't that big, but he knows how to use his mass. As for Entreri's flashbacks, I tried hard to avoid them, but couldn't. And about the coffee; he outlined how to make Saudi Arabian coffee.

_A/N: There was a problem with the prior chapter: a scene was somehow cut, giving the appearance that Jarlaxle ran way from two of Casteja's soldiers. I reconstructed the scene (a bit sloppily) from memory and reposted it. If you missed the edit, you might want to backtrack and reread that scene. This chapter is almost purely dialogue. Crazy._

* * *

"_The centrifugal force was no longer powerful enough to hurl out the thoughts,  
__which unsuccessfully went around in circles,  
__without any stimulus,  
__so my head was denied the silence needed for sleep."  
-_Einsturzende Neubauten, _Der Weg ins Freie_

_verbal reconnaissance_

"I'm afraid I'll make a poor captive."

"You'll make a poor scabbard, too, but that won't stop me from sheathing cold steel in your gut."

"Now, now, Master Casteja knows how these things work; we can skip the threats. In any case, I already made them."

The three males stood thigh deep in the rice fields beyond Chondalwood, the moon shining brightly down to cast them as silver monuments. Many of the circling fireflies had descended earlier in the night to rest on leaves and long stalks of rice, but a few still flew in lingering orbits that Entreri found more mesmerizing than before.

It was difficult to shake the aftereffects of the psionic attacks that had nearly crippled his mind. It was only Jaka's continued catatonia that helped him believe Jarlaxle's insistence that the attack had only last a few seconds; not even half as long as the attack the boy had endured.

Biting insects were as thick as ever and if Jarlaxle hadn't recently found a leach under the hem of his black shirt, he would have been tempted to sink down into the water rather than face the harassing cloud. At least the insects did not seem capable of penetrating the garment nor interested in the patches of dirt on his skin water had turned back into mud.

They had left the bizarre hill in such haste neither he nor Entreri had attempted to clean themselves up. The task seemed nigh impossible without completely disrobing and washing their clothes inside and out. Casteja, of course, had his hands full and wrists bound, and neither Entreri nor Jarlaxle felt inclined to aid him in recovering any sort of cleanliness.

In a remarkably calm mood since his gag was removed, Casteja behaved obediently. He made no effort to conceal his amusement at the regular slapping attacks Jarlaxle levied against his black skin. The dark elf didn't mind the mockery; he had yet to inform the man of what had become of Tan and the rest of the soldiers. Prisoners were more fun when they weren't depressed and he could see signs Casteja Vektch had a sense of humor cruising beneath the surface of his rather formal personality.

More surprising to Jarlaxle was the reprieve in Entreri's brooding the moment the mercenary had acquiesced to the assassin's suggestion to call Kimmuriel to come fix Jaka. He supposed the man's barely hidden smirk was due to anticipating the look on the psionicist's face when he learned he would have to deflect Agrach Dyrr's anger at having damaged their only link to the silent magic. The mercenary almost felt sorry for Kimmuriel; Menzoberranzan's fourth house was deeply ferocious and the lich behind the house's power had a long memory.

The mercenary looked back to Casteja and the delicate figure cradled carefully in his arms. The way the man held the drow youth was interesting but not if one noticed the way the tailor's face smoothed in his catatonic state, betraying his age as his stony façade had not. Vektch seemed capable of sympathy. "Being a difficult captive isn't in your favor, Master Vektch. It would help to know what the sword did to Jaka's mind. I appeal to your sense of fair play as the boy did nothing to you."

The man, who stood nearly a head taller than his captors, looked down at the figure in his arms. It was not clear if Jarlaxle's tactic had any sway with the man, but he sensed the human was not as bereft of kindly emotions as Entreri. "Fair play? I was not speaking falsely when I told you I do not know. Vritra is not possessed of a sentience you can understand. I do not know when Vritra feels threatened, curious, or hungry, though I assume those are the stimuli that it acts on. It is enough to have psychic abilities to attract Vritra's attention; such individuals never last long in its presence."

Entreri and Jarlaxle soaked up the information and came to the same conclusion. Jaka had been discovered before he tried to find the sword, and when he sensed it the two must have somehow connected.

"Then this has happened before," Jarlaxle reasoned. "And did the psionicist involved survive?"

Casteja shook his head. "Temporarily. It is my practice to kill the ugly ones shortly after they fall twitching to the ground."

Jarlaxle held his hand in front of his mouth, palm out, and then wiggled his fingers at Casteja. "Do the ugly ones look like this?"

A wry grin pulled at the contours of the man's lips at the amusing display. "Those are the ones I refer to. Sometimes the random person falls down twitching when I come close, though it isn't common."

"Wild talents," the dark elf mused, dropping the hand from his mouth and tapping a finger against his chin.

His train of thought was suspended by a faint blue light that appeared a few meters from the three of them. The subdued blue light joined the moon's silver and the green phosphorescence of the fireflies refracting off the surface of the water and reflecting in strange shapes over the three males as they waited for what the light would bring.

Jarlaxle turned to observe the portal as it appeared, its light refracting over the water and— The dark elf's visible eye narrowed in amusement, seeing that the light also emanated from within the water it was opening. A quick glance at Entreri revealed the true source of the assassin's amusement. A smug smile was glinting in his eyes: Entreri had taken advantage of Jarlaxle's resignation to the wet surroundings.

A flood of water rushed forward as the portal opened, slopping into the dimly lit room Kimmuriel stood within. The dark elf caught the mistake immediately, but not before Entreri was rewarded with a hissed curse, an annoyed expression, and the sight of Kimmuriel Oblodra knee deep in rushing water. The portal's lower lip immediately changed shape, drawing up above the water level, but not before the damage was done. The acting leader of Bregan D'aerthe would have to deal with nearly an inch of standing water in his private study. Entreri hoped that entailed the destruction of many fine hand-knotted silk rugs from the mercenary band's days in Calimport.

"You could have found dry land," the dark elf immediately accused Jarlaxle from the Menzoberranzan side of the portal. Angry aggravation froze on his face when his red eyes landed on Casteja and the unmoving burden in his arms. Entreri noted with relish the slight widening of the dark elf's eyes as he took in the sight.

"His mind seems to be slightly disordered," Jarlaxle supplied helpfully. "We'll need you to see how extensive the damage is before we continue."

"Bring him." Kimmuriel commanded Casteja in his simple command of the Common tongue. To augment his statement, he gestured inward with a wave of his delicate fingers.

Seeing no reason why not, Casteja stepped forward with Jaka's inert form. Entreri, however, grabbed the man by the shoulder. "Give him to me."

Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel both scowled at Entreri's sudden generosity as he took the limp body out of Casteja's arms. Both drow assumed the assassin was moved by a desire to further annoy Kimmuriel, but Entreri had still another reason to keep their prisoner from getting too close to the Oblodran and his shimmering portal.

The assassin took another look at the drow youth as he carried him to his psionic teacher. The lad really looked no different from other drow he'd seen, though it was rare to see youths on the murderous streets of Menzoberranzan; usually young drow employed hoods to disguise the weakness associated with their age. Jaka's piwafwi was loose around his slender form, especially so with apparent loss of a broach the lad used to alter its fit.

With the loss, a new piece of jewelry had come loose from the lad's clothing; one that Entreri did not immediately recognize as morbid. Lying tangled in the folds of the piwafwi's wooly silk lay a looped black leather thong with a playing card sized, and shaped, leather ornament. The strange pendant looked smooth to the touch and so well tanned that it looked like living flesh. It was embroidered along its edges in archaic-looking whorls and trimmed along the bottom in silver and gold. A tassle of black hair came down from the center edge and gave the assassin indication of what the necklace was made of: drow.

Entreri deposited the boy on the wet floor at Kimmuriel's feet with a barely constrained look of disgust. The young drow lay unmoving on the floor, his face utterly slack and far more innocent than any dark elf's face had a right to look.

Crouching low, Kimmuriel casually took the macabre, yet beautiful, ornament and tucked it inside the boy's collar. His crimson eyes flashed, but betrayed little more than his ire at having the assassin so close. Dismissing the brief wordless encounter, Kimmuriel took hold of Jaka's jaw and turned his face up. He noted crusted blood around the lad's nose and at the corners of his mouth. "What is this?" His face was clear of emotion; only natural condescension inflected his attractive voice.

"Some call it blood." Entreri replied, his answer every bit as unhelpful and annoying as it could be.

Kimmuriel chose to ignore the assassin's remark as if his question had been answered by the soft breeze. He continued to observe Jaka's face and placed his free hand over the lad's forehead and concentrated. Unlike Jaka, who closed his eyes in order to center himself, Kimmuriel was far more experienced and delved into the other's complex mind with his red eyes open. Several moments passed as he explored the lad's mind and a myriad of expressions passed over the normally impassive drow's face. Astonishment, intrigue, bitterness, and a hint of resignation chased across his handsome features as they watched. Unconsciously, the mysterious drow's hand smoothed up from the boy's jaw to the youthful curve of his cheek.

"Jakadirek will be of no further use on this expedition," he pronounced, eyes glazed as he continued to probe the fallen drow's mind. "Whatever attacked him barreled through his defenses in swift order; no small feat considering the boy's training. It tracked back through his thought patterns and memories, directly to the weakness in his mind. It exploited that weakness and drained him of all his mental reserves in the process."

Kimmuriel's head raised and turned vaguely in Jarlaxle's direction, but his eyes remained glassy, indication enough that his consciousness remained divided. He spoke, remaining in Drow, with strict authority. "Whatever did this is exceptionally accurate. It took me hours to discern Jaka's problem even with free access to his mind. The damage may very well be beyond my ability. It is likely I will have to look outside Menzoberranzan to contract one of our i _haszakkin_ /i allies in order to fix the damage. Agrach Dyrr will be a problem."

"Your problem," Entreri shrugged mercilessly, satisfied he wouldn't have to deal with one of the alien illithids himself. Now that both Jarlaxle and Kimmuriel had brought the tentacle-faced creatures up, it occurred to the man that Vritra reminded him strongly of illithids. If it didn't mean losing his prized gauntlet, he felt it would not be such a bad thing to sever Casteja's hand and drop it in acid.

Red eyes sharpened immediately at the assassin's words and bore into the man with intensity anyone else would find alarming. "How your language skills have improved. But still, they lack; shall I take the conversation to the perfect level of pure thought?"

Entreri stared back at the hated dark elf with similar intensity, his hand drifting casually to the hilt of his famed dagger. "Only if you want to take things a step further to a spiritual level."

Amused laughter broke the growing tension and both males turned their heated gazes to the source. Jarlaxle stood within the strained situation with grace and poise, as if it were all a show staged specifically for his amusement.

"My friends, please constrain yourselves," he smiled, though the slightest hint of iron ran through the undercurrent of his pleasant tones. He waded forward, effectively waving away a cloud of gnats with his great purple hat. "If young Master Dyrr's time with us is complete, then we must consider compensation for his valuable assistance."

The assassin was disappointed to lose the young psionicist; if Vektch managed to remove the glove before they got rid of him, there would be no be nothing to distract Vritra from doing whatever it had done to him while he'd fought to neutralize it.

Jarlaxle paused beside Entreri, placed his hat back on his head with a flourish and then held his hand out politely before the man. Rolling his eyes, the assassin slipped a hand into a mud caked pouch and produced an equally muddy object. The item dropped into Jarlaxle's waiting palm. With great dignity, the mercenary stuck his hand into the portal and transferred the item to Kimmuriel's graceful and spotless hand. "You will need this."

A look of disgust hovered at the corners of the psionicist's expression. "Please tell me this is not the Agarach Dyrr insignia."

"None other," Jarlaxle nodded gravely. "I would hate for you to return the boy without it. It may need a little cleaning."

"I hardly call this compensation," Kimmuriel said, looking at the chip of mud doubtfully. He shot a venomous look at Entreri. "You have nothing else of his?"

The assassin snorted in reply.

"Compensation," Jarlaxle continued, as if there was not another confrontation brewing, "will be paid just as soon as the mission the boy aided in has reached fulfillment. In other words," the male jerked a ring bedecked thumb at their patiently amused prisoner, "just as soon as we hand him over in the coastal fortress at the heart of a city known as Arrabar."

A vague smile met Jarlaxle's pronouncement. Entreri noted the look with a spike of anger; obviously Kimmuriel knew something of what his infuriating partner was up to. He pushed down the anger and bit his tongue, mindful to take as much from the exchange as possible.

"If you would like," Kimmuriel offered, "I could open a portal directly into the city. However, I would need time and a small amount of aid to do so."

A sly grin spread across Jarlaxle's face. "I would like nothing better." Switching suddenly to the common tongue, the mercenary looked directly at Casteja. "When is the last time you were in Arrabar?"

The question had the unlikely affect of surprising the man somewhat. That surprise swiftly melted into suspicion. "Not recently."

"Recently is such a relative term! How long? Years, months…" the male's visible eye glittered in wicked amusement. "Weeks?"

"Years," Casteja stated, with the conviction of a man whose answer bears more weight than it should. The significance of the delivery was not lost on Entreri who knew the hallmarks of a lie inside and out. The thing of real interest was why the man had been in Arrabar recently?

Raised in a culture built on lies and experts in every version falsehood, Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle observed Casteja with growing smugness. Entreri shook his head at the predatory looks the dark elves were fixing on the stubborn man. "Vektch, I suggest you do not play games with drow when you are in a position of helplessness."

Slow deliberation characterized Casteja's attitude as he brought up his chin, easily placing it above all three of his opponents' eyes. He looked down at them with calm, yet slighly mad defiance. "I am no easy mark."

"Prideful," Kimmuriel remarked in surprisingly clear Common, unimpressed by defiance or madness. "But not if peel his mind."

The human smirked, the smile was on his lips but made no appearance in his eyes at all. The challenge was clear.

Jarlaxle raised a placating hand, speaking in drow again. "No, he carries the item, rather the creature, that reduced Jaka to the state you witnessed."

Kimmuriel's brow furrowed immediately, causing Entreri to wonder when he had ever seen the psionicist behave with such open emotion. "He has it still? Then how…?" And then the male nodded in understanding, his eyes darting to Entreri's bare right hand and then Casteja's covered left arm. "Clever. But in that case, it does not matter how recently he was in the city; I can't lift the layout from his mind. I will need to research it before I can open a portal to hasten your travel."

As an afterthought, the cunning dark elf and acting leader of Bregan D'aerthe added, "Though I am sure that he must have a very interesting reason for going to his enemy's city on the sly. Do you suppose that somebody within that city is helping to fund his military action out here?"

"That, my dear Kimmuriel," Jarlaxle replied with a chuckle, "is probably why our friend remains so prideful. He thinks he has an ally with a few tricks back in the city. Of course, on the other hand, he might just be the delightful type of person that ever sees the opportunity for amusement in any given situation."

The pronouncement, obviously nothing more than preening, joined Entreri and Kimmuriel long enough to hit Jarlaxle with twin stares of pure disgust. The expressions nearly bent Jarlaxle double in a hearty laugh that only increased the sourness in both faces. Wiping moisture from the corner of his uncovered eye, Jarlaxle straightened up when Kimmuriel began to speak again.

"Call me in a few hours— on dry land," the dark elf narrowed his gaze on the human assassin, "and I will open a portal. That should give me time to stabilize Jaka's mind and find the city you seek."

Nodding his agreement, Jarlaxle added, "Good luck with House Agrach Dyrr."

"And you should consider a bath," Kimmuriel replied icily, his lip twitching toward a sneer as he leaned over to pick up the motionless youth. He ignored the ridiculous encouragement from the male he continued to think of as his superior officer. The dimension door closed instantly, opening the view back up to the shining moon and leaving them alone in the water.

"The joy of having my mind peeled is denied me?" Casteja asked wryly. The man did not seem concerned or overly anxious that he hadn't understood even a quarter of the conversation.

"I'm sure you already know about that," Entreri snorted, thinking back to what little he could remember of Vritra's attack; what he did recall wasn't anything he wanted to share. "Little wonder a dark elf wishing to vivisect your mind does not illicit any traces of fear."

By way of acknowledgement, Casteja shrugged his broad shoulders. "I fail to see why I should so fear the evil of black-skinned elves. They can be no worse than a wood elf with a wicked bent."

Entreri's expression, carefully schooled into a mask of near boredom, gave away none of the surprise he was feeling. A subtle glance toward Jarlaxle revealed the slightest hint of intrigue on his black-skinned features. Casteja could have said nothing more bizarre if he had tried. Rumors and speculation, especially in a country as homogenous as Chondath, had to be rampant about the outrageous evil dark elves engendered. An evil so virulent that rumors barely began to scratch the surface of the deep rooted wickedness they embraced.

"Forget whatever you've heard of Do'Urden," Entreri commented, gesturing for Casteja to begin walking again. "He's the only drow I know of that presents himself as a champion of whatever he calls goodness. If the boy you carried softened your heart, consider that he thinks of all living creatures as skin-bearing animals; including his own kind."

The man shrugged, but began to walk through the marsh in front of Entreri. "Speaking in absolutes is a fool's occupation."

"And where did you get such a notion, friend Casteja?" Jarlaxle quickly fell into step ahead of Entreri, at their prisoner's right side. The assassin wondered if this was half to protect the man from the possible insult. Entreri suffered few people to call him fool. "I've never heard a Chondathan speak about matters of philosophy."

"You know as well as I that I am no son of Chondath," Casteja replied casually, a knowing look on his calm features.

"Ah, you see, now you've opened yourself up for sensitive inquiries," the dark elf smiled, his expression a caricature of speculation. "What country claims you as son? Not Sespech, surely."

"Surely not," the man replied, no hint of offense in his voice but a knowing look in his intelligent gaze. "No country claims me as its own at this time but Chondath."

"Outcast?" The mercenary inquired, his delight obvious as their captive proved more intriguing. Entreri rolled his eyes but said nothing; it seemed the irrepressible Jarlaxle had found himself another opportunity to amuse himself despite the wretchedness of his surroundings.

"No," Casteja said, this time turning to look at the dark elf as he replied. Entreri groaned internally at the sly look in the man's expression; their captive was enjoying the game just as much as his captor. The assassin shook his head slightly, certain that he had somehow wandered into one of the upper layers of hell.

"Then where would a man such as you receive a philosophical education?" the dark elf continued, completely at ease with the ins and outs of the game they were playing.

"My father was a professor," Casteja admitted, prompting another openly intrigued expression from Jarlaxle.

"He taught philosophy?"

"And natural science."

"And natural science… and who taught you of war?"

"My mother," the man replied with a laugh. "She was a fierce woman. In a land where women were considered ill-suited for war, she thrived as the brightest star on a war torn horizon."

Totally uninterested in the man's past even though the man had referred to his country in obvious past tense, Entreri began to unconsciously drift away from the conversation. He had his own internal situation to settle and external situation to consider. He wasn't sure how to gauge if his mind was suffering from Vritra's baffling attack. The best plan, he decided, was to ask Kimmuriel more details about what happened to Jaka when Jarlaxle summoned him next.

The only symptoms of attack Entreri had an easy grasp on were physical conditions. He was terribly drained, without much energy, and his head ached badly. Internally, he was having a difficult time focusing his thoughts. Not one for introspection or bouts of ennui, Entreri knew the frequent periods of vacant staring where not normal. Using his weapons helped focus his concentration and channel his discipline, but he could not go through those motions constantly. If the situation persisted, he knew he would have no choice but to involve Jarlaxle and that would result in hated Kimmuriel examining his mind. The situation almost made insanity appetizing.

It was a question he would have to settle before Kimmuriel opened a portal to Arrabar, because in his continued pettiness, Entreri had decided not to mention that they could not actually take Casteja through a portal.

Kimmuriel operated under the assumption that Entreri could walk through one of his portals while wearing the red stitched glove. This assumption came as the result of a con Entreri had played back when the psionicist was allied with the cleric-priest Rai'gy.

The two had believed Entreri's magic and psionic dispelling gauntlet would not allow him to walk through a portal while he was wearing it. To their astonishment, Entreri had done exactly that, but unknown to them, he had worn a fake gauntlet Dwahvel Tiggerwillies had prepared for him. Kimmuriel obviously had not discerned the truth of the glove in the meantime and Entreri, who would always hold a grudge against insults and attempted murder, had no problem letting the dark elf prepare extensively for a trip that simply wouldn't happen. Best to inquire about Jaka's condition and possibly get his mind looked at before the dark elf discovered his petty treachery.

"No, I shouldn't imagine she would have enjoyed being born a dark elf."

The dark eyed assassin narrowed his eyes as the conversation began to permeate his consciousness again. Normally he could have listened and thought about his situation at the same time, complicated as it was, but his concentration continued to suffer.

"Most drow don't enjoy being born drow," Jarlaxle was saying in a sage voice, "That Drizzt Do'Urden you've heard about spends most of his time denouncing the evil of the society that birthed him. No, most drow are not happy with their lot in life and that is part of what drives them."

"I think my mother enjoyed being a woman in a society dominated by men," Casteja mused, "and would have preferred being male if she'd been born in yours. She was very contrary and loved most sorts of confrontation. She enjoyed the scandal that erupted when she came to my father's house to give birth. According to rumor, which fast became legend, she threw open the front doors at an ungodly hour, barged into my father's living quarters, kicked him and his wife out and held the rooms by virtue of her blade until she was done birthing."

Jarlaxle chuckled heartily at the description. "Sweet Lolth, you've an origin to match the legend of your military exploits. It is unfortunate that with so many losses in your upper organization General Ashrei has finally defeated you."

Casteja shook his head, the hard gray tendrils of his muddy hair rasping against his stiff shirt. "She hasn't won at all. I structured this movement carefully. Each of the different divisions is networked and capable of independent movement. Just because the divisions I put together to help the rice farmers have been decapitated by removing their leaders, doesn't mean they won't melt back into all those other divisions. They don't need me, though they are better off with my direction and leadership. The military action will continue, but it will take longer."

It seemed to Entreri that when Jarlaxle looked at their prisoner after his denial of losing the war, the mercenary seemed to have the greedy expression that came to his eyes when obscure magic items were waved under his nose. "I've half a mind to keep you for myself. If I agreed not to take you to Arrabar, would you be willing to teach me your style of warfare?"

"You better come up with my half of the bounty if you plan to keep him," Entreri shot at Jarlaxle. "I didn't take a head full just to suit your sense of greed."

The taller man looked over his shoulder at the assassin shadowing him in the moonlight, but answered Jarlaxle all the same. "Have you an army to command?"

The dark elf's answering grin was shining white in the late night gloom. "Why? Do I have a commanding air about me?"

The man snorted softly, his eyes narrowing to set off grudging respect. "Perhaps you do. There is a certain familiarity about you. Have I met you under some disguise?"

Recalling earlier suspicions, Entreri's gaze instantly shot to Jarlaxle's sly face to see what sort of reaction the drow had to the sudden claim. He was intrigued to see the drow's previous smile stretch thin and his visible eye gleam, but it was not quite the expression the assassin expected. From the years of their acquaintance when Jarlaxle was leader of Bregan D'aerthe and months of traveling together he knew that gleam. Somehow, Casteja had freely given the cagey dark elf a tidbit of information Jarlaxle wanted.

"It seems doubtful," the dark elf replied, frustrating both men with his elusive answer.

"If you have an army to command," Casteja continued, seeking to minimize the mysterious loss he felt he had inexplicably incurred, "perhaps we could reach an agreement."

"You would easily give up on Chondath?" Entreri looked as dubious as his statement. "Do you expect to lose?"

"I won five years ago," the man shrugged.

Both Jarlaxle and Entreri snorted at the statement, though Jarlaxle's derision was much less potent. The offhand manner in which Casteja pronounced himself the victor sounded convincing, if grossly over confident.

"If victory sounds so unbelievable, then we've nothing more to discuss concerning my freedom." The man was utterly confident in his ability and with that confidence and the interest in commanding a different army, Entreri suddenly made a surprising conclusion.

"You're a mercenary."

"Like his mother," Jarlaxle chimed in, showing Entreri that the drow had figured it out long before him.

Casteja's shrug confirmed the statement more firmly than any agreement or denial would. "Not like my mother; she was a brutal fighter with a penchant for penning poetry with the tip of her sword. I'm more of a tactician and planner."

"Who hired you to fight in Chondath?" The question couldn't have been more blunt if Entreri had pasted it to a club and beat the man with it.

"Somebody in Arrabar," Jarlaxle chuckled, "if I'm to guess."

The man gave no answer to Entreri and no indication if Jarlaxle's guess was true. His expression turned grim as he changed the subject to one Jarlaxle had wanted to avoid. "What happened to Tan?"

The light hearted mood Jarlaxle had skillfully engendered was wiped out immediately, leaving the dark elf with no more free information. "I had hoped to spare him."

Entreri knew the full truth of Jarlaxle's statement. Before collecting Entreri's belongings and Jaka's comatose body, the mercenary had returned to the shrine and finished off all the survivors. Tan had already died, but three of the six soldiers were gravely wounded or otherwise still kicking. The assassin remained unmoved by death, he also remained exhausted from the ordeal with Vritra and not a little worn out by the late hour.

Not five years ago, staying awake and active for more than twenty-four hours hardly phased him. After roughly four decades of life, Entreri was disgusted to learn he needed more time more often to recover from his daily expenditures of energy.

Unaffected by the tension Casteja's question had brought on, the assassin preempted Jarlaxle's continued conversation by cutting in just as the male's mouth opened to speak. "I need rest."

Jarlaxle reacted with guarded surprise, shutting his mouth abruptly. Entreri had spoken in Drow, in order to keep their prisoner unaware of his condition, but the mercenary did not mistake the significance of the statement. "If we head for the tree line, will we not find dry ground? Let's go that way. It isn't like you to admit weakness; did you stop me before the orb was done healing you?"

"No," Entreri replied stiffly. "You said it yourself, the orb cannot heal a mind. I have a headache that would split a mountain."

The dark elf decided not to press the issue, for all he wanted to know what his partner had experienced when Vritra had attacked him. He knew the assassin wouldn't be forthcoming on that topic, which was fine since Kimmuriel would undoubtedly be taking a look into Jaka's mind at what he might have suffered instead. "Very well, when we get out of the rice field, I'll volunteer to take first watch. He's definitely too tired to try to make an escape tonight."

"That makes two of us," Entreri admitted. "I'm going to sleep in this dirt."

A small laugh was his reply. "I also, but only because these tedious insects can't penetrate the muck."


	10. hangover

**Iceheart Firesoul**: Made up for lost time, didn't you? Thanks for the reviews. Entreri wasn't familiar with Casteja's fighting style because it is basically a form of boxing and from a country he has no experience with.  
**zdog84**: More, as requested.  
**Ariel**: And you can't have muddy Entreri without… shirtless Entreri. This chapter is a rollercoaster of highs and lows for Entreri.  
**hakatri**: This is something of a continuation of last chapter, so more bickering from everyone.  
**Witchwolf**: I hate to admit it, but I'm quite fond of Casteja, too. There's more to love soon. And more Kim abuse.

A/N: Rezuri has gifted this fic with an _incredible_ illustration (that I just got in the mail today) from the second chapter. I have linked her on my profile page, where I usually place all my updates. Follow the link and check out her gallery at Lavender Eyes: you can comment without a membership, so let her know what you think.

If you want more Jaka, I've reposted _wasting potential_ on ff dot net. Second chapter is all new material. Ah, and congratulations to all of you that got the random quiz right. Your answer is in this chapter. Most of you got it.

* * *

"_Moving, like water  
__Moving, drifting on the wind  
__Drifter coming in  
__Then I dreamt that I awoke  
__and all around was asleep  
__with eyes in the back of my head  
__awake to who is following."  
_Siouxsie & the Banshees, _Drifter_

_hangover_

Entreri's scant hours of sleep were uninterrupted by dreams; a common enough occurrence. Uncommon was the method in which he awoke. He had no idea how long the warmth from a light hand on his shoulder had been soaking through his cloak and into his skin. Any amount of time, in his estimation, was much too long.

Instantly awake, but slow to react, Entreri's right hand flew up to knock the offending grip away. Even in his waking moments, wretched as this one was, the assassin was blindingly fast, but the light touch managed to retreat before contact could be made. Looking up from his cowl, Entreri's dark eyes met a one-eyed look from Jarlaxle.

The dark elf's expression was guarded, but enough concern was evident to turn Entreri's mood far darker. They both knew it was passing strange that the assassin would sleep through any approach.

"Your sleep was quite deep," Jarlaxle said in all seriousness. He dropped down into a crouch before his traveling partner and looked the man's face over. Underneath the traces of dried black blood, underneath the crusted and powdering mud, he saw bone-deep weariness. "I know you have good reason to hate Kimmuriel, but he is the only source of aid we have in this matter."

Hating his weakness more than Kimmuriel, Entreri threw off his cloak violently and stood up over Jarlaxle in the cool night air. "When do you expect the wretch?"

It was the dead of the night, but it wasn't too dark to see exasperation register on the drow's angular black-skinned face. "Before long. If you wish to clean up, you have a limited amount of time. Casteja has fallen into fitful sleep, but even if he were awake I could watch him by myself. The rice fields are not full of the cleanest water, but they are all we have for the moment."

Nodding stiffly more to himself than Jarlaxle, Entreri left his cloak in the grass, but picked up his travel pack. "I don't need long."

As Jarlaxle stood up, the laconic assassin walked away, heading away from the tree line and toward the rice field they had waded out of only a few hours prior. Gauging the distance the moon had moved since he'd fallen asleep, Entreri realized he'd picked up almost three full hours of sleep. He snorted quietly; normally he would feel more refreshed in half the time. The lag was not so much his age, he mused, but the affect of Vritra's attack.

Arriving at the water's edge, he dropped the pack onto the ground among blades of grass adorned in dimly sparkling night dew. Visibility in the area was poor as the chill night air coaxed mist from the warm water and ground. Only a few fireflies remained in flight and they were transformed into eerie balls of light not unlike will-o-wisps. Looking over his shoulder, not even his enhanced sight could penetrate the gauzy veils of fog and reveal Jarlaxle's location.

He didn't require privacy; Entreri had no reason to place any cultural importance in modesty despite Calimshan's strict mores and norms. The body, human, elven, halfling or dwarven, held no mysteries to a killer. An overdeveloped sense of caution kept him from stripping down completely to wash himself off; that was a task he would perform when he and Jarlaxle could guard each other's backs or they found secure lodgings.

Listening closely to peeping frogs and chirping crickets, Entreri pulled off his newly one-sleeved shirt and the undershirt beneath it. He knelt at the edge of the rice feild and dipped half the hand towel from his pack into the water. Entreri brought it up to his face, but was careful not to eclipse his dark eyes as he started to remove what remained of the dirt and blood.

The smell of wet grass and earth went farther to calm his mind than the thought of cleaning off some of the grime and blood. His thoughts were far more organized than before he slept. Still, it was normally an effortless task to stay alert for danger, wash, and consider the current and up-coming implications of whatever he was doing. As he ran the cloth over his face and scrubbed at his neck, he could feel an uncomfortable sort of mental tautness when he tried to fall into routine multitasking.

A stubborn man, Entreri stayed alert and willed himself to continue the motions of soaking, wringing out the cloth and rubbing it across his skin, while concentrating on what he could recall of the conversation Jarlaxle had had with Casteja. It irritated him that everything seemed vague and the things that seemed unimportant were the first to surface. The man's mother was a mercenary with a wild streak. It sounded like his country no longer existed, along with said mother. Casteja was actually a mercenary and knew someone in Arrabar, somebody that could be the very person that hired him to start a popular insurgency.

The last bit bothered Entreri; it rang discordant in his mind. When he dissected the thought it fell into several jangling pieces. Human mercenaries were not the patient sort, why would Casteja, who looked to be in his early thirties, waste two years developing the stage for an insurgency that was now in its fifth? Jarlaxle had mentioned that he thought the man had overcome human impatience, but that was before they knew he was a mercenary. Was this because Vritra prolonged the man's life? He supposed the prospective reward had to be astronomical and reliable. But then, why would the mercenary they met on Iljak's dock have mentioned Casteja's earlier penchant for robbing caravans? Was he just a petty bandit back then? Why would he need the money if he had funding? Unless he wasn't hired yet or the reward was to be paid on delivery of the nation?

Then there was the matter of Casteja's mysterious nationality. He was not Chondathan, in fact, he made few attempts to speak like one. The sort of speech patterns he employed reminded Entreri of a cultured speaker and validated the claim that his father was a professional philosopher. Chondath certainly wasn't big on philosophy, though it was quite big on mercenaries. If he was not Chondathan and if his past wasn't known in the country, why would anyone hire him for such an important mission?

Unless the person was likewise not a local. The two foreigners in Arrabar that Entreri knew of were General Ashrei, said to be from Ixinos, and the wizard from Thay she had used against Casteja while his troops couldn't retreat into Chondalwood. He found Ashrei unlikely, for Casteja had been in the fight before she had come into it. Furthermore, from what the sailors said on the way to Iljak, the women of Ixinos wanted nothing to do with the world outside their island, aside from the occasional male in order to produce offspring. It was just hearsay, but if Ashrei really was from Ixinos, she was probably every bit as mercenary as Casteja.

The wizards of Thay were another matter altogether. Entreri wasn't one to trust propaganda, but all he had was Casteja's leaflets to go by when it came to the timeline of the Thayan entry to Chondath. It seemed more likely that they would be interested in creating unrest in the area to keep countries like Sespech diverted from sending their mercenaries to Thay to free the slaves the wizards kept under lock and key. As if neighboring countries didn't have enough trouble with Chondathan nobles raiding outside their borders.

Then there was the matter of recognition Casteja had given voice. The man found Jarlaxle vaguely familiar. Was it because he had met a dark elf somewhere? He didn't seem convinced that all drow were evil, so there was an off chance he'd met some extremely rare goodly drow. That thought led Entreri to the moment the man had ordered his men to attack. Had Jarlaxle's use of hand code given them away? If that was the case, he gave absolutely no sign that he understood the spoken language. The assassin found it hard to believe neither he, Jarlaxle, or Kimmuriel would have missed any sign of that possibility. Perhaps Vritra had plucked their intentions from Jaka's mind instead; it was more likely.

Entreri was momentarily jerked from his thoughts by the fog-muffled report of an open palm striking black skin. He smirked slightly and wondered if Casteja had been schooled in natural sciences by his father. Perhaps he had a cure for the insect problem. Pausing, he also noticed he had been stubbornly rubbing away at his shoulder for nearly a minute. Not a good sign, he mused.

Putting the thoughts out of his head, he continued to crouch over the water. Trading hands only once, he passed the wet cloth over his chest and stomach, finishing up with a two-handed scrub at his face. He hung the cloth over his neck and leaned forward to catch a glance at his vague reflection in the dimly moonlit water. He looked much better, but he still felt the dried spikes of mud in his hair. Too adept to require bracing himself on the bank with one hand, Entreri reached back with the other and scratched vigorously at the back of his head: powdering the mud as completely as possible.

And was shocked to discover himself off balance. Hands a blur, the assassin threw his arms out to steady himself while he made a subtle shift of weight to consolidate his weight. More astonishing than losing his balance was his overcompensation for the oversight.

It was a dripping wet Entreri that came stalking toward the impromptu camp. To his further irritation, Kimmuriel had already made his appearance. He heard Jarlaxle and the psionicist before he saw them through the thick fog.

"That shouldn't complicate matters," Kimmuriel was saying, "but it is interesting to know. By the way, I must thank you for introducing mosquitoes into our headquarters and the human for providing all the standing water in my study. Did you know these insects can gestate in a matter of… hours?"

"My, that does sound bad," Jarlaxle was laughing. "Does this mean your study is under quarantine?"

"Why do you think I am speaking to you from the unlit confines of my bedroom; as some form of enticement?"

"As the leader of Bregan D'aerthe, you can afford a much larger bed! Think big, Kimmuriel. How will the soldiers be able to respect you if you don't have enough room on your bed for all the lovers your position and power bring you? Truly, after a week of hard packed or muddy earth as my bed, I find the sight intensely enticing, though the bed might be a bit crowded. Artemis would probably volunteer to sleep on one of your carpets."

Entreri came through the mist, a disgusted look on his face. Kimmuriel smiled in amusement as the man walked dripping past. "Of the lot of you, I think the assassin is the cleanest, but even he isn't coming into this portal."

Jarlaxle turned to regard Entreri, giving the man a questioning look as soon as his face was diverted from Kimmuriel's view. In answer the assassin said nothing, only picked up his travel worn cloak and began using it as a towel. As he dried off he took note that Casteja was no longer asleep. He was sitting against a maple, free hand traveling up and down his left forearm in the same way Entreri had seen Pasha Pook pet his big cats. Every now and again, the man would flinch slightly, as if in pain, but kept his focus on the dark elves.

Sighing, the assassin turned his attention back to the two drow that had jumped into discussing points of interest in Arrabar. "You are most welcome."

Both dark elves again paused, but Jarlaxle caught the reference first and snickered. "For the standing water in your study."

Kimmuriel ignored the remark completely. "I've located an inn for the three of you. It was no easy thing to reserve a room for three people at this time of night, I assure you. Even more challenging was finding one that didn't ask questions of hooded figures. In the end, I managed to do a little convincing."

"Did you do anything about entertainment?" Jarlaxle asked, stretching mightily, sending a cloud of dusty mud to drift from his black skin and clothes. "I'm going to need a good masseuse before we charge up to that fortress with our valuable prisoner."

"You'll need a bath more," Kimmuriel shot.

Entreri didn't pay attention to the two, looking instead for a way to broach the topic he wanted to talk about. He thought a moment about Casteja's flinching, perhaps Vritra could move under his skin without using psionics. That was a possible opening. Glancing past Kimmuriel, he saw a better opening he didn't expect to see.

Laying listlessly on a bed against the far wall of Kimmuriel's quarters was Jaka Mi'iduor. The boy was flat on his back, his eyes were half-lidded and his arms had fled the black and beige sheets to weave in the air. His fingers danced along an invisible loom, weaving patterns into a tapestry only a psionicist could see.

"What is he weaving?" Entreri asked, bringing both dark elves' attention back to him. Kimmuriel's crimson eyes narrowed in suspicion at the unexpected query.

"The beauty would be lost on you," the psionicist stated. "He has been set on weaving the damaged web of his mind. It was the best analogy for one of his skills."

"How long will it take him?" Entreri continued.

Kimmuriel's expression did not deviate from suspicion, in fact the look intensified. "The better part of a day, if he is not interrupted."

The better part of a day was not what the assassin wanted to hear, since he was trying to gauge his recovery time by Jaka's. Entreri had seen weaving before, but it wouldn't do him any good in the same situation. "Did you get the aid of an illithid?"

Dark red eyes glanced at Jarlaxle in question. Entreri could understand Kimmuriel's confusion; he did not know Entreri as one to express any sort of concern. Jarlaxle's answering shrug prompted the psionicist to reply. "Yes. You might say he provided the loom, found the threads, and helped Jakadirek start the weave."

"What kind of damage did he take for this to be necessary?" The assassin continued to question, face as bland and emotionless as ever.

"The creature tunneled through his mind and memories," Kimmuriel stated coldly. "It drained all his reserves as it went back, exploiting memories and gathering clues to ultimately break the boy's mind. I believe Jarlaxle's eye patch saved him from complete burn out."

It all sounded too familiar to Entreri and though he was a master at subterfuge, Kimmuriel was just as masterful at guessing motives. "I see. I thought you were more offensive than usual."

Jarlaxle looked at Entreri with what most would consider concern, but the unfamiliar expression only made the assassin paranoid. "It only had you for a few seconds, it had Jaka for at least a full minute. How far did it get?"

The sudden clenching of teeth and the strain of muscle along the assassin's jaw told the dark elf mercenary far more than a verbal report. It had gone far indeed, or the stubborn man would never have chanced bringing the attack up. Jarlaxle wondered, not for the first time, what a man possessed of such darkness and determination could have to hide?

"It affects you even now," Kimmuriel murmured thoughtfully. He too, knew the assassin would not question the issue unless he had something to worry about. "Since you are, by no measure, possessed of psionic talent there is little to fear. This Vritra attacks divinity and devours the psionic. As Jaka is both devoted and psionic, he had much more to lose than a man with a dead mind and no religion."

With the authority his knowledge and experience afforded him, Kimmuriel looked to Jarlaxle. "The human needs rest; his years are getting faster and after an attack from that thing even a young man would need considerable time to recover."

Jarlaxle took the advice to heart even as Entreri fumed at the condescending treatment. "I'll see he stays in our room until tonight, barring a trip to the baths."

With no more need to keep his silence, Entreri shook his head casually. He was more than happy to burst both dark elves' bubbles. "No matter how nice it sounds, we won't be staying the night in a tavern tonight."

Two faces of blackness and shadow fixed red-eyed gazes on the human after his surprising statement. The drow did an impressive job of looking blank, if long suffering. "Aren't you?" Kimmuriel asked quietly.

"Aren't we?" Jarlaxle echoed, voice betraying just a touch of annoyance and the weariness he felt threaded through his bones.

"No," Entreri replied, enjoying the many attempts Kimmuriel was making to sublimate his irritation. "You have my deepest thanks for all your efforts, Kimmuriel, but we cannot use your portal."

"You can," the psionicist snorted, "but refuse."

"True," Entreri nodded, gaining a look of open shock from Jarlaxle. "Jarlaxle and I can, but we'll refuse on the grounds that our prisoner cannot."

"He can't?" Kimmuriel echoed.

From the side Jarlaxle mouthed the same, _He can't?_ His confused expression only lasted a moment, but it was enough to amuse the assassin.

"No, not while he wears my gauntlet," Entreri remarked flatly.

"You've worn that thing through my portals before," Kimmuriel scoffed, waving a hand in dismissal. "What has changed since then?"

"The fact that this gauntlet isn't a fake," the assassin smirked, enjoying the psionicist's reaction.

Kimmuriel's white-haired head drew back at a tilt as if the human he was looking at had suddenly sprouted another head that was espousing charity and goodwill. "Fake?"

Again the psionicist looked to Jarlaxle for verification, but the wily mercenary wasn't looking Kimmuriel's way at all. He was studying the assassin with avid curiosity. "The notice did read that he did not have to be in one piece. In fact, it read that he did not have to arrive with the sword. Why, it even said there would be no questions asked, though I find that the least likely sentence of all."

"Indeed," answered Kimmuriel, who did not like to see his efforts and valuable time put to waste. "Cut off his hand and get rid of it."

Entreri flicked a look back at Casteja as Kimmuriel pronounced the casually cruel solution. The man showed no recognition of their speech, despite the civil discussion centering on the removal of his hand. Either the man did not care or he did not understand what they were saying. Entreri guessed the latter.

"I do not choose to lose my gauntlet," the assassin shrugged. "We will cross over to Sespech, where Chondathan troops, rebels, and bounty hunters won't be a problem. From there we'll make our way to Arrabar by boat, foot or horse."

Kimmuriel cast yet another glance at Jarlaxle and was incredulous to see the surprising dark elf nodding. "That's the way of it, then. Personally, I don't like the idea of throwing perfectly good magic items after bad. You'll have to put a hold on that room for us until we get there."

For a handful of seconds Kimmuriel only stared at Jarlaxle in disbelief and then he shot a venomous glare at the assassin and made a dismissive gesture with the wave of his slender hand. "If that's how you like it. I hope the reward for this man is worth all the trouble you're going through. Lolth knows, I'd never trust a human male or female to give a reward like that for one male."

"Humans are not drow," Jarlaxle replied as if that answered everything. "Even so, I'd sooner trust my own mother than a human politician. I'm sure an attempt to cheat us will be made, but Artemis and I are much too sly for tricks."

Kimmuriel raised an eyebrow as if to say he trusted only Jarlaxle to be that intelligent, but let the matter drop. "I won't be surprised if you both end up dead this time." He turned to Entreri to warn him to never waste his valuable time again on pain of mental evisceration, but was interrupted by a soft voice behind him.

"If you die," Jaka whispered hollowly, from a sitting position. He swung his thinly clad legs over the side of the bed; his bare feet hit the floor without a sound. The strange necklace slipped down his collar and swayed gently on his chest. It almost blended in with his skin but for a few gray scars underneath it. He stood, swaying slightly, and reverently pressed his left hand against the drow skin ornament with the silken tassel of ebony Ilchathmyr hair. "If you die, tell my mother I'm working—"

Whatever Jaka wanted them to tell his mother was kept in Menzoberranzan within the secretive confines of Kimmuriel Oblodra's room; the portal disappeared abruptly as the more experienced psionicist turned on his heel to presumably deal with the young male. For a split second Entreri had an unobstructed view of the Kimmuriel's back and then he was gazing into the murky depths of moon-kissed fog.

"Interesting place to keep one's mother," Entreri stated dryly, keeping to the dark elven language even though Kimmuriel was gone. There was no way he was going to give the insightful observation any more thought than necessary.

"In some Houses," Jarlaxle replied in an equally toneless voice, "Matron mothers pretend to care for their offspring in order to foster slavish bonds of loyalty. Lolth does not always approve of such behavior, because many of the offspring that result venerate their matrons more than their goddess."

"Kimmuriel has a soft spot; he gave me a clear shot at his back." The comment came with a careful lack of interest as both males stared absently at the shifting vapor around them.

"He's not like most," Jarlaxle admitted. "He was loyal to Rai'gy out of whatever passes for friendship in Menzoberranzan. Certainly they made an excellent team and had more to gain as allies than enemies, but there was something more I doubt either ever mentioned to the other. Kimmuriel has capacity for what drow consider luxury items: true loyalty and honest, if unspoken, friendship. Doesn't make him any less of a bastard, does it?"

There was an underlying sentiment to Jarlaxle's words that Entreri could appreciate, something that came with a feeling he couldn't quite name. Relief? Security? Whatever it was, the feeling was not directed at the departed psionicist, but the dark elf beside him. It took him longer than usual, but he understood that Jarlaxle was verbalizing his normal double-thinking. In this case, he was speaking about Kimmuriel and Rai'gy, but also about the surprising friendship between himself and the assassin.

Entreri wanted to simultaneously punch the maddening drow and… and he didn't know what. It was hard to define the uncomfortably benevolent feeling writhing in his chest. It felt dangerous and ugly, but also vaguely important. As an unknown, he wanted nothing more than to destroy it utterly.

"It doesn't make me want to kill him any less," the assassin finally shrugged. The feeling of overall diffusion remained with the human fighter. He didn't want to think about complicated introspection; it was making him uncomfortable within his own skin.

"Of course not," Jarlaxle smiled, clapping his hands together in quiet amusement. "But that's not really what's on my mind. I simply must learn your plan for getting us to Arrabar. It must be amazing for you to keep it such a secret and equally brilliant if I haven't figured it out yet."

Entreri swiveled his head to give the dark elf a squinting stare. "What do you mean? I already told you the plan."

Jarlaxle nearly slapped the man's shoulder in good nature, fortunately he stopped just short, his hand hovering inches away. The serious look in Entreri's eyes told him all he needed to know. "You don't have a plan."

"I _told_ you my plan. We're going to travel through Sespech where _he_," Entreri gestured at their half-awake prisoner with a violent slash of his hand, "is not a wanted man and where Ashrei's troops won't be found."

The bald mercenary slapped a hand to his forehead and stared momentarily at Entreri. The assassin was certain the move had roots in disbelief rather than the sting of another mosquito. "I can scarcely believe you forgot. Do you not remember the day we escaped Crenshinibon? I against my will?"

"How could I forget?" Entreri snorted dismissively, "I had one of your daggers bleeding me dry. I have the scar to remind me daily."

"How did we get out of Crenshinibon and away from Kimmuriel and Rai'gy?" The dark elf's query held all the patience Entreri did not.

The assassin began to reply in acid vein, but stopped short, utterly speechless. They had fled through one of Kimmuriel's portals while Entreri had been wearing the red and black gauntlet. The real gauntlet, not the fake. Entreri was keenly aware that he had just done the unthinkable: he had outsmarted himself.

"You aren't thinking clearly," Jarlaxle said quietly, "and possibly aren't in complete control of your body, either. How did you come to fall into the water? No, Vritra affected you more than you're letting on. Kimmuriel was right that you need more rest."

Entreri wanted to deny the mercenary's accusations, but knew better than to try with all the evidence stacked against him. Mouth set in a grim line, the assassin rocked back on his heels with a low sigh; it was the only indication he was willing to give to show he would not argue the point. He had more than enough on his mind as it was and had no energy to waste on a debate with somebody of Jarlaxle's cunning.

"However," the dark elf shrugged, taking off his hat to wave away more blood-thirsty insects, "it works out better this way."

"Really." The assassin looked at the male dubiously, absently noting the way the fog swirled with the movement of Jarlaxle's obnoxious hat. "I'm waiting for the punch line."

"No joke," the dark elf returned, dropping the hat back onto his smooth scalp. "Our prisoner is an interesting man; a week together may not satisfy my curiosity, but it is better than a day or so."

Entreri's suspicious expression turned doubtful. "A week seems unlikely without horses. I think it would be better to look into taking the river to Arrabar after crossing into Sespech. Of course, the river might be problematic since it is used by both countries."

"Either way," the dark elf said, staring again into the fog, "time may not heal all things, but it should help this psychic injury of yours. I wouldn't like to meet the Shining Lord of Arrabar without the full partnership of Artemis Entreri."

With nothing to add to Jarlaxle's statement, Entreri made no move to respond. They stood quietly for a few more moments, both thinking over different complications that stood in the future. As they stood, the cacophony of birdsong began to filter through the fog and nighttime chill. The heralds of morning were rising and all three males knew the sun would follow before long.

-

Over the days that followed, Entreri saw and felt improvement in his physical and mental response times. Evading the Sespech border guard was no challenge for the two bounty hunters, despite the awkwardness traveling with Casteja presented. Taking the river became a problem when the small crew of the Sespech cargo boat recognized Casteja and opted to poach him from the bounty hunters. Jarlaxle and Entreri sustained few injuries commandeering the vessel, but ended up running it aground within hours on the Chondathan side of the river as the assassin and drow knew little about vessels much more complicated than a rowboat.

Only a few days outside Arrabar at that point, Entreri stole two horses from the first farmhouse they encountered and had little difficulty evading the inevitable pursuit. Common sense dictated they risk travel at night, with Casteja traded between them. The man was in better humor since his capture, but was increasingly taken with fruitless clawing at his covered arm. As Entreri suspected, Vritra was capable of moving underneath the man's skin without its psionic powers, at the price of incredible pain to the tactician.

Tampering with the covering prompted Entreri to rethink the design of his impromptu prison for the creature. With Jarlaxle's help, Entreri managed to keep the glove over the man's hand while removing the sleeve and decorative bracer. The sleeve was much more effective secured underneath the bracer, rather than over it. The operation also enabled the two to see that Vritra's tentacles had speared halfway to Casteja's elbow, but never pierced the skin. The skin immediately near the channels forced into the man's flesh was loose and flushed with black bruising. They rippled suggestively as the two looked on, causing their prisoner another round of cursing and thrashing. Neither Jarlaxle nor Entreri found the display particularly comforting.

All told, the trip to Arrabar took ten days, and would have taken less if they had opted to risk daytime travel. In order to minimize encountering problems with locals and travelers recognizing their cash cow, they had taken to brisk movement during night time hours.

The most annoying aspect of the first few days was Jarlaxle's incessant complaints concerning the boring nature of the journey along Chondath's back roads. Entreri was considering throwing away what bonds of friendship bound him in order to gut the male, until Casteja came to a semblance of rescue. In order to take his mind from the agony of a physical creature making a bloody soup under the skin of his left arm, the tactician began to tell Jarlaxle of the many virtues of the plant life they encountered on the way.

The lecture included a lesson on natural insect repellent easily employed by rubbing one's skin with a common herb. Entreri picked this tidbit up and tried it covertly when he saw it did not in fact poison his partner. More amusing was the discovery that their prisoner, the leader of a successful insurgency, a brilliant tactician, a man who preferred to fight with his bare fists… was also a talented field cook. He amused himself and Jarlaxle by teaching the dark elf the subtleties of outdoor cooking. Again, Entreri waited to make sure Jarlaxle was not poisoned before partaking of the fruits of the drow's amused labor.

When they finally saw the moonlit walls of Arrabar, Jarlaxle's complaints of boredom had completely dissipated and Entreri's mind had settled. There were memories he was trying to forget again, but they did not affect the steadiness of his hands when his blades were in his professional grip.

Standing with their horses on the outskirts of the road leading directly to the fortress city, Jarlaxle and Entreri studied the monolithic walls. The fortress rose menacingly from beyond with towers along the perimeter wall that revealed no immediate blind spots. It was a masterful edifice designed to withstand the most draconian siege.

"It's doable," Entreri remarked without a trace of concern. "You have your levitation and probably some form of invisibility and I can simply climb. The problem is our prisoner. He's heavier than either of us, but his ungainliness is the real issue."

Jarlaxle nodded sagely. "True. I think we should just bribe the guards."

"Of course," Entreri replied sarcastically, "they are probably holding the keys to the city for the first dark elf they meet."

The comment had Jarlaxle smothering laughter under his black hands. "Then I suppose Drizzt Do'Urden should come claim them if they're still available."

The assassin rolled his eyes. "That would be a difficult feat from the grave. Now, do you want to take our prisoner or shall I?"

The dark elf's moonlit smile was blinding in the darkness of his face. "Let's share the duty. After all, neither of us has a trusting nature; we can't trust the other not to go running up to the castle to claim the reward for ourselves."

"Can't we?" The assassin was hardly amused. "How would we go about sharing this burden?"

"You take one arm, I'll take the other," Jarlaxle began, "and we drag him to the front gate and bribe the guards."

"Do I have to bribe you to get a serious response," Entreri asked sarcastically. "Or do I just take him and get started?"

With a show of unnecessary graciousness, Jarlaxle turned to Casteja, who was staring at the city absently. "What do you say, friend Casteja? Front door or over the wall?"

The man had long since gotten used to Jarlaxle's eccentricities and was not surprised by the question. "If you take me to the gate you run the risk of losing your reward to the city guard. You don't have to trust me on this, but I've found the city guard to be remarkably resistant to persuasion. Their superiors are another matter, but the guard themselves are unswerving in their loyalty. You will not find any goodwill there; likely they'll see me as an instant promotion.

"But if they see you on the walls and shoot us down, I won't have a chance at becoming a political prisoner, I'll just be dead. Therefore, I prefer the direct approach."

"Well, there it is," Jarlaxle proclaimed, "you are outvoted, Master Entreri, by a full third of the assembly."

"Hardly," the assassin returned. "For one, the prisoner doesn't have any say in this matter. For two, I will never let something as petty as a show of hands have any control of my life. We're going over the wall."

"Rot," Casteja sighed. The taller man looked down at his bound wrists and the ingenious knots the assassin had tied there; he'd had no luck whatsoever in loosening them. "I find myself forced to remind you that, though I have been a model prisoner up to this point, I should now begin to be desperate to avoid entry to the city. This means, of course, that as you carry me up the wall I will feel it is my duty to struggle in the hope we fall. Dying alone isn't high on my agenda and I'm no longer disposed to make things easy on you."

Jarlaxle smiled at the man's statement. Not only did he enjoy the complicated phrasing of Casteja's reply, but he was arguing convincingly in favor of Jarlaxle's plan of action. "Well said, Master Vektch."

Entreri gave the tactician a level stare. "You'll do as I say or I'll start removing your fingers."

Casteja shrugged. "Threats are meaningless. I believe you would torture me, but I fail to care. I've endured far worse than mundane pain to my flesh."

The comment struck a nerve Entreri couldn't deny; callous threats were a knee-jerk reaction for the human fighter, but they had never made any sort of dent in his personal armor. More important was the implication of Casteja's claim to pain worse than physical torment; it reminded him instantly of Vritra's psychic attack. It seemed likely that Casteja had been through something of the same, perhaps when he gained the repulsive thing in the first place.

"I see another knot in the back of your head in the near future," the assassin snorted, unsheathing his life stealing dagger. "Moderate condition is free to interpretation."

To Casteja's guarded relief, Jarlaxle carefully placed a black hand on the emerald pommel of Entreri's signature blade and pushed it down toward its sheath. "If we do it my way, you have me to blame when everything goes wrong. We agreed to do this job for profit rather than fun, but I'm certain I've enough coin to bribe the gate. Let's not take chances on the wall. You may have had little trouble climbing over Baenre's fence with the lovely Catti-brie on your back, but Master Vektch is larger and less willing."

The assassin wasn't certain whether the sudden spike of anger that surged under his skin was due to Jarlaxle's attempt to get his way or the subtle innuendo concerning Drizzt Do'Urden's female companion. Either way, his teeth clamped together in annoyance and his jaw became very tight. The bald interest on their prisoner's face did nothing to improve Entreri's disposition.

"Fine," the assassin sneered, taking his stolen horse by the reins. "You bring him to the gate. I'll head up there first in case you need back up from behind their immediate lines."

Without looking back to see if Jarlaxle agreed, Entreri swung up into the saddle and headed straight for the city's front gate. He was seething as he rode, something that made the horse slightly skittish. More interested in the city and its high walls, Entreri gave little thought to the animal's behavior but focused on what he could see of the city. Despite his enhanced night vision, the assassin couldn't see much of the city or the fortress that resided within.

What he could see only reinforced the sense of his smallness in relation to the monstrously huge walls and thick gates. He didn't fancy Jarlaxle's chances of making it into the city were even remotely realistic. Not only was it dark out, but sight of the drow's equally dark skin would likely preface a bloody battle and a pursuit substantially more serious than what they'd seen from the farmer whose horses they were riding. The assassin was working through how they could take advantage of the confusion and get Casteja into the city. If nothing else, the assassin could slip into the city and wait for Kimmuriel to deliver Jarlaxle.

When he was close enough to see the city guard clearly, he slipped from the saddle and led his horse the rest of the way. He found the garrison heavily armed, armored, and defended by the typical contingent of crossbow men on the walls. All business, Entreri noted every possible militant and began to plan how to most efficiently kill and evade them all.

As usual, he was met sufficiently far from the gate and told that he would have to wait until morning to enter unless he could produce proof of urgent intent. The assassin began to explain in clipped tones that he didn't fancy the idea of spending another cold night sleeping in dirt, when Jarlaxle's horse came into easy range. He listened with half an ear to the usual citation of the rules of entering the city, which, of course, were mainly a precursor to the strong hint that Entreri would have to pay the requisite bribe to enter at night.

Entreri was much more interested in what the guards would make of Jarlaxle. Rather than continue listening to the soldier's recitation, the assassin simply reached back behind his cloak for his coin purse while telling the man to save them both time and just name the price. Meanwhile, his other hand was slipping over the hilt of Charon's Claw and Jarlaxle's loud jewelry and boots were turning up a racket as he hailed an Arrabar soldier for entry.

What happened next was unexpected enough that the assassin, who was prepared for every imaginable situation, was momentarily surprised. The soldier he was speaking with looked up at Jarlaxle and while the first expression that crossed his face was revulsion, the second one was recognition. It was the second expression that saved him from a hideous end at the hands of the incredulous assassin.

"Are you with the… black elf?" The guard asked, his eyes darting from Jarlaxle to the black haired man nowtied to the drow's saddle.

Letting gravity resheathe his partially drawn blade, Entreri's first and most logical instinct was to deny all association, but he quelled the urge and nodded. "You don't seem particularly surprised to see a drow at your doorstep."

"Of course not," the soldier snorted, his lip curling in distaste. "Times are strange; I've the order of the Shining Lord, Eles Wianar, to allow you entry."

* * *

_Next chapter, things get a little crazy. _


	11. the iconoclast

**Lord Onisyr**: Don't worry, Jaka will continue to get better despite the illithid doctor visit. I think you'll find Casteja even more interesting this time, despite relatively little 'screen time.'  
**hakatri**: You shall soon learn what Jarlaxle did (or didn't do) in order to get into the city. You may want to murder him.  
**Iceheart Firesoul**: Kim's not so bad; but he is fun to abuse, besides, he worries about his protégé. Glad you like Casteja; you never know, he might have already tried to get rid of Vritra.  
**Witchwolf:** The cliffhanger is so severe this time, I'm afraid you'll e-mail bomb my google account. To placate you I added another line about cooking. Hey, and it was a struggle to pull the explanation about the gauntlet out of my ass. And speaking of asses; that was the first time they stole horses.  
**Ariel**: Be patient with Jarlaxle; I promise it will be worth it even though we both want to kill him.

**A/N: **Welcome to the longest and most unintentionally delayed chapter yet. The cliffhanger is bad, but the next one might be worse. This chapter actually had beta-readers; Ariel and Rezuri helped make sure things weren't too confusing, despite receiving a very choppy draft. Ariel reported that she thought she'd have to read the whole story from the beginning to appreciate what happened in this one. Believe it or not, I started foreshadowing this chapter in the first one, so I encourage you to do some rereading. This was always intended to be read straight through like a novel, so it isn't as cohesive when you go weeks and even (sigh) months between chapters.

* * *

"_Mommy, can I go out and kill tonight?  
__I feel, I feel like taking a life.  
__Please, I want a silver kitchen knife,  
__And feel, feel like taking a life."  
-_Golden Boy (featuring Miss Kittin), _Rippin Kittin_

_the iconoclast_

The ride to the inn was silent but for the clatter of hooves on cobblestones and a few whispered words from prostitutes of either gender looking to make a few more coins before midnight. Jarlaxle recognized the hush as the quiet before the storm. The assassin was on a level above most drow when it came to concealing or discarding emotion, but rage had always been an emotion Entreri suppressed with difficulty.

Riding beside the assassin, he noted the miniscule hints that portended agitation. There was the infrequent clenching of his jaw, the cold glint in his eyes, and the heightened grace at which Jarlaxle secretly marveled. When the assassin's easy grace became terrible to behold, it was because he was making a conscious effort to keep it smooth. It was the sort of dead giveaway that few lived to witness.

The most obvious clue, of course, was the one Entreri willingly made; the emerald-studded dagger was twirling, a disc of life stealing green and silver, seeming to hang in midair as the killer propelled it with one finger. There was no mistake, even the stiffened body language of the man tied to Jarlaxle's saddle communicated awareness, that the assassin contained a high level of murderous anger. Entreri was at the stage of anger that begged for an excuse to plant the dagger into some unfortunate's eye, where it might bloom from the grey matter contained in the crockery of a skull.

For once, Jarlaxle wasn't completely certain he could convince the man that the bizarre turn of events wasn't his doing. The situation was not as he had foreseen; during the trip to Arrabar he had secretly instructed Kimmuriel to implant a suggestion to make the soldiers bribable, not let them in on the orders of Eles Wianar. He made a note to speak with the psionicist on the 'do's and don'ts' of interpreting orders. If, in fact, Kimmuriel had taken such strange initiative; it wasn't in line with what he knew of the male. The other, more likely, possibility wasn't one he wanted to reveal to the assassin.

When they reached the inn where Kimmuriel had reserved their rooms, Entreri slid out of the saddle immediately and seized Jarlaxle's horse's reins before the dark elf's heels clunked against the stones. A sleepy-eyed girl took the reins gingerly from the assassin's hand as the dark elf untied Casteja from the saddle.

Wisely, Casteja kept his head down to minimize the chances of anyone recognizing him as they ushered him into the dim confines of the establishment. Fortunately, there were few other patrons in the common area to enjoy the warm atmosphere and scent of wood smoke and melting bee's wax.

It came as no surprise the sight of the three travelers spurred the female proprietor's face into a tired smile. She told them in amazingly lucid tones that their room was located at the top of the floor and at the end of the hall. Jarlaxle nodded his thanks and ushered Casteja up the stairs while Entreri received their room key. It took only a moment for the woman to produce the key and when she did, the assassin was baffled at her earnest tone as she told him her wish that they 'have an enduring union, unfettered by secrets or concerns about money.'

He gave the woman a look of strangled bemusement and reminded himself that until he had his glove back, killing Kimmuriel wasn't feasible. He didn't pretend to know what the statement meant unless the wretch had read his mind, though he did recall the psionicist as a connoisseur of sarcasm and cruel irony.

Muffled laughter led the fuming assassin straight up the stairs to their room. He found them at the end of the hall; Jarlaxle had obviously picked the lock on the door. The dark elf was half in the portal with Casteja ahead of him. Entreri could not see the drow's face, but the way the monstrous diatryma feather shook informed him Jarlaxle was the one laughing. The laughter only increased the heat of the assassin's blistering anger.

He drew up, pausing in the hallway behind Jarlaxle and took a look inside. His mood was already dark, but it found a blacker shade of jet at the sight that greeted him. The room was indeed the house's finest. The highly polished hardwood floors were strewn with fine carpets, a fireplace with attractive stone facing took a place of honor along one wall, lanterns with glass chimneys were at every corner with mirrored backs to enhance their glow, and candles lined the fireplace's mantle. There were elaborate flower arrangements of local flora in a myriad of glass vases around the room and in the windowsills.

If the flowers were not the first indication of the nature of their room, the bed that dominated the room was the last. The single bed was huge, large enough for a family of four. It had four posts strewn with white gauze drapery and was covered with a quilt with painstakingly executed depictions of love symbols and fertility.

Kimmuriel had thoughtfully reserved the bridal suite.

Wordlessly, Entreri stepped past Jarlaxle and the only slightly less amused Casteja. He made a short round of the room; checked under the bed, investigated two other doors in the room, and tested the locks on the windows. Caution bade him to check the chimney as well, since the fireplace was not lit. Satisfied with what he saw, he dropped his pack on the cushioned window seat and glared back at Jarlaxle.

The mercenary's mirth had faded considerably since Entreri's entrance, but had not fled entirely. "I already performed a spell to check for magical emanations and found the room quite devoid of arcane traces. I suppose that means none of us need fear pregnancy from sleeping here."

Casteja chuckled at the remark, "I should think that we need more than a quilt to risk pregnancy."

Jarlaxle nodded sagely. "True, but you need not fear me, either."

Their prisoner chuckled again, rolling his bright blue eyes. "Have you been hiding a uterus all this time, villain?"

"If he has," Entreri remarked coldly, "it had better be because he was planning on cooking it."

The dark elf sighed and shrugged gracefully. "So much for the romantic atmosphere." He spun his hat off his head and across the room, hooking it perfectly on one of the bed's posts. "Did I catch a glimpse of a private bath behind one of those doors?"

Entreri nodded and began to unfasten his cloak. His intensity did not diminish, his hard gaze continued to cut the drow down. "Filled with warm water."

"Hopefully there is wine in this room as well," Casteja remarked, walking toward a set of oak cupboards. "I'm dry as a wooden god."

"That's a phrase I haven't heard before," Jarlaxle chuckled, glancing at Entreri as he did so. The dark elf cast the assassin a slight nod, accepting the man's unsaid demand that they talk, but turned to open the cupboard for their prisoner. Inside they discovered a fair stock of bottles and conducted a pleasant discussion on the assembled vintages.

Entreri stripped to his undershirt in silence, never losing track of his thoughts or his anger. The assassin wanted nothing more than to soak away the whole situation in the large white basin in the adjoining room, but he wanted more to have his discussion with Jarlaxle. There was no possible way to enjoy anything until the verbal bludgeoning was behind them.

With the light-hearted air he habitually sustained, Jarlaxle took Casteja's suggestion on the wine and poured three glasses full of a faintly beige spirit. "You won't be breaking your glass and causing us trouble, will you?" The handsome drow asked their prisoner as he handed him a wine flute.

"Fortunately for all three of us," the man replied, holding the glass between hands bound from wrists to elbows, "I know when I'm outmatched. My best chance at escape was back at Phosealis' shrine, with Vritra. Now it is in my best interests to conserve my health and energy for imprisonment."

"Imprisonment?" Entreri snorted in disgust, simultaneously filing away the name of swamp shrine's deity. It was utterly unfamiliar to the assassin and Jarlaxle's fleeting expression of curiosity, meant it was esoteric to him, as well. "You should be preparing for torture, for all the good it will do you."

"True," Jarlaxle smiled, the dark gleam of personal experience making his face momentarily as foreboding as his racial reputation. "If they want you alive, you must expect them to torture you for information. Or will you be as pragmatic as you've been this whole time and simply volunteer the crucial knowledge?"

Both bounty hunters studied Casteja's face and body language for answers beyond the words he would give them. "I'm a patient man," he shrugged, giving no hint of falsehood. "I have endured torture before and I have learned that it lasts as long as your tormentor wants, whether your tongue dances truthfully or not. It is in my best interests to say nothing more than that. No one can ever be fully prepared for torture; all you can do is know what to expect."

"I could still take you away from here," Jarlaxle offered. "There is benefit to be had if you are willing to teach your art. The only difficulty would be the transfiguration spell, and that, I assure you, is hardly a problem."

Entreri gave Jarlaxle another harsh look, his annoyance becoming more turbulent than the simmer of before. Casteja shook his head slightly, a hint of a secretive smile twisting his fine lips as he lifted his wine glass between both callused hands in a mock toast. "No."

"We will be talking. Now." The assassin grated in Drow, leaving no room for Jarlaxle's protests. The dark elf noted the trademark dagger was once again in the assassin's hand, turning over and over.

A sigh of carefully sculpted exasperation left the drow as he turned to Entreri and joined him on the other side of the large room. He handed the man one of the wine glasses he'd filled before drawing him a little further away. "I still haven't discovered if the man knows drow sign or if the sword read from Jaka what our intentions were. So let us be quiet."

Entreri had already solved this riddle with his own private studies. "He doesn't know the spoken language. His body language is fairly discreet, but not on the deceptive level of dark elves. When Kimmuriel suggested cutting off his hand, he made no indication of understanding. So cut the pretenses and tell me how he knows you and what you did to get us waved through the front gate."

The dark elf's stared at Entreri with unreadable intent, but then his expression gradually turned into a complex blend of amused curiosity and thoughtfulness. The questions were the ones he'd anticipated and he could answer honestly and still manage to mislead the assassin as to his true intentions. A small part of the shifty male reasoned that continued secrecy was going to cause unnecessary trouble, but the undeniably crafty blood running through his veins denied the logic in giving the man anymore information than strictly necessary. After all, unbeknownst to Entreri, at least half of that blood was pure Baenre.

"As to the first, I swear to you by whatever keeps us from killing each other, that I have never met this man before in my life," he stated with honesty and without damning elaboration. The second statement was in the same vein. "As to the second, I suspect that was Kimmuriel's doing."

Iron eyes stared into Jarlaxle's ebony face, boring into the male's uncovered crimson eye with the same cold intensity he gave unflinchingly to the many many victims of his heartless dagger. There was a time Jarlaxle had found the frosty gaze to be perfectly legible and the owner of it to be easily manipulated, but the assassin had long since sealed all the holes Menzoberranzan and desperation had poked into him.

More than ever before, Jarlaxle saw in Artemis Entreri an equal; a traveling partner that could stand fast or give way just enough to keep the far older male on his toes. It fascinated him that a mere human, with the pathetic lifespan allotted to him, could come so far in such a short time. Certainly farther than he, or even surprising Drizzt Do'Urden, had in the same amount of time.

It came as no surprise, however, when the hard-edged man's upper lip curled slightly in a sneer and the dagger he casually spun slammed into the door that led to bath waters. Jarlaxle was impressed; he hadn't even seen the assassin's hand move.

"I don't care if you have to write it down and say it backwards to satisfy your inborn need for secrecy," the man grated. "I want the truth. What are you getting out of this other than half the reward?"

Jarlaxle would have acted casual, but he knew it would only anger the assassin more. Instead, he cautiously retreated to the bathroom door and began to work the emerald studded dagger out of the door's tight grain with his free hand.

"Adventure," the dark elf replied glibly. "I wouldn't do this if I didn't enjoy it. As much as I revel in the chaos and intrigue of my home city, the open-ended nature of excitement on the surface has a refreshing kind of charm I crave."

"And what of the repeated offers to our prisoner?" Entreri demanded. "There's no profit to be had in letting him walk free."

"Paying you half the reward would be worth the education," the mercenary returned with all seriousness as he continued to pry the deeply imbedded dagger from the door. "As doubtful as it all seems, my friend, our prisoner has developed a multi-pronged form of warfare that turns warfare as humans know it on to its head. He's incorporated the target country's very culture into his plans and he is, in all reality, winning. It would be a good business venture to sink a good deal of riches into seeing if he could do the same thing in the Underdark."

As soon as the dagger came free of the door frame, Jarlaxle took the blade in hand and walked back to Entreri. With a deliberately choreographed motion, he presented the hilt to the assassin, the blade pointedly aimed at the dark elf's heart.

The placement of the deadly weapon was not lost on Entreri. The move would have been more impressive if Jarlaxle hadn't been wearing the black shirt Jaka had sewn him. Entreri knew he could still cause significant damage despite the deceptive material. More importantly, he knew his vexing partner understood the possibility, too.

For the space of several heartbeats he stood, unmoving, considering the unspoken sentiments. He knew Jarlaxle was not coming clean; he would continue to keep his secrets, perhaps for the mere sake of having secrets to keep. By the same token, he was making a clear overture with the dagger. It was a question of trust and that was ground Entreri preferred to avoid.

Both males believed trust was indication of an irrational mind, but they also knew there was no other word for what existed between them. Either male could say they trusted the other's sense of self interest, but it was lip service to a far more seductive element; actual friendship. As such, it remained unspoken, only existing in the hard reality of actions.

Meticulously exact motion brought Entreri's callused hand to his signature weapon and curled his nimble fingers around the hilt. The heat of his anger dissipated gradually, though he knew it would linger. "I mean what I said about saying it backwards."

A smile broke out over Jarlaxle's face with the simple statement. He released the dangerous weapon's hungry blade. "I'll buy paper and quill first thing tomorrow morning."

"If you two need time to make up," Casteja called from across the room, managing to refill his wine glass with only a little trouble. "I'll take a bath while you renew your bonds. I can see the room has had an affect on you and I would not like to disturb the tender moment."

The comment did not diminish Entreri's anger, rather it transformed a good deal of it to disgust. Jarlaxle was a far more appreciative target of such banter and smirked. "Ah, but Casteja, you've reminded me of an important duty that all good pet owners must observe."

"Pet?" The tactician had the decency to look slightly concerned by the dark elf's statement and paused to awkwardly replace the wine bottle on the mantle. "Is this going to be the sort of thing I'll find amusing only after saturating my liver in alcohol?"

"Possibly," Jarlaxle grinned maliciously. It wasn't an expression most sane creatures wanted to see on a dark elf's face. "Think of it as a contest of wills: how far can you buck the norms and mores of your society in order to make somebody else uncomfortable?"

"You're proposing to bathe me, aren't you? On my honor, if you free my hands I'll do it myself without attempting escape." The blue-eyed man stared at Jarlaxle's unwavering look with clear challenge before putting the wine flute down and taking the bottle back instead. "If your kind are as bad as you say, I'll need a head start."

Entreri turned to Jarlaxle, unenthused about the prospect and desiring no part in the challenge whatsoever. "You're in this on your own."

Three bottles of wine and a soaked floor later, all three were clean, though two of them were newly bruised, and had availed themselves to a deck of cards found in one of the room's many drawers. Casteja had suggested they set stakes in order to win rights to sleeping arrangements. Entreri had only agreed because he had long since decided that he would be opting for the room's single chair; the stakes were totally unimportant to him. Jarlaxle, of course, was up to any sort of game of chance or cheating.

Despite arms that were trussed from wrists to elbows, Casteja did an excellent job of winning. The man was awkward with his bonds and at one point movement under his skin had reflexively thrown the cards into disarray. Entreri supposed he was simply lucky; he could barely shuffle and dealing the cards took so long Jarlaxle was happy to pass them out instead. The match was a challenge, more so when the one-eyed mercenary began cheating. He was a master of all the tricks Entreri knew, but far more skilled a hand than he'd seen for years.

After six rounds, all three were evenly matched, though the seventh put Jarlaxle ahead. He was in the middle of shuffling the deck when his head cocked to the side, an obvious indication that he'd heard something out of place. A dark red eye flickered momentarily toward the room's entrance. He continued to shuffle without pause, letting Entreri rise from the edge of the bed and drift toward the door on infinitely silent bare feet.

Halfway across the room Entreri heard the slight scuff of light footsteps outside the door. The assassin marked the soft noise as belonging to somebody familiar with quietude, but making no attempt to be silent. He covered the sound of unsheathing his dagger with the staccato rapped out on the hardwood door.

Jarlaxle halted his shuffling and called lightly, "I'm sure you have the wrong room; please move on."

Before the interloper responded, Entreri held up one finger, indicating their visitor was alone. Unspoken agreement was reached between the two males and Jarlaxle stood to answer the door. Though the dark elf was barefoot, his jewelry made enough noise for both Casteja and Entreri to forget the previous clunking of his hard-soled boots.

"Your guest has business with Eles Wianar." The speaker's voice betrayed his gender as male. "And if you wish an audience with the vast treasury he commands, you may wish to accompany that guest."

The dark elf nodded to Entreri and the man responded by unlocking the door with his free hand; this was a scenario with which the two males were acquainted. His other hand was ready with the dagger, simply waiting for the door to open and for Jarlaxle to act as the visual block he probably didn't need in order to seize their mystery speaker if needed.

The person on the other side of the door was too cautious to open the door, which spoke well of him. However, Entreri and Jarlaxle were confident in their ability to assume the dangerous role of initial action. The assassin's hand reached out, turned the latch and pulled the door back. Entreri had the advantage of the door, while the dark elf's hands were free for whatever mischief he deemed most useful.

There was no mischief; just a young soldier in officer's livery. To Entreri's instant consternation, the serious man looked oddly familiar. It wasn't his unremarkable short-cropped brown hair, his tan skin, or hazel eyes, though they were all Chondathan staples. It wasn't his expression, which bespoke the typical Chondathan stoicism and mask of patience. Mentally the assassin cursed Vritra's influence; he had thought himself thoroughly over the weak episode.

"Captain Sora," the young man stated, nodding civilly to Jarlaxle and then to Entreri as the assassin stepped back into the man's direct sight. "I am General Ashrei's aide and her liaison to the Shining Lord. I have a small escort waiting outside to escort you to an audience."

"Well met," Jarlaxle beamed, looking the man over inquisitively before presenting his hand. "I am Jarlaxle and this is my partner, Artemis Entreri."

"Yes, of course." Sora ignored Jarlaxle's offered hand, and flicked his gaze past the bounty hunters to Casteja, who had moved to the window seat and was looking down through the curtains. "If you wish to leap through the glass, Captain Vektch, the escort will be ready to catch you."

The man, doomed as he obviously was, smiled winningly over his bare shoulder. "Truly? Would they catch me before I hit the street or only after the initial bounce?"

"That's part of the challenge," the General's aide replied flatly, seeming so bored with the conversation that most people would take bets on an imminent yawn. "If you'd like to take the chance, I'll cover the cost of the window. And perhaps later, I'll feed you the fragments."

Noting the absolute lack of humor, Jarlaxle tossed a look at Casteja. "You should have agreed to come with me."

---

The young soldier waited outside the inn with the men under his command while Entreri and Jarlaxle took their time preparing to leave. By unspoken agreement the two joined Casteja at the window and watched Sora as he stood, arms crossed over his chest. The soldier had a face that knew a thousand shades of disinterest and boredom. Jarlaxle couldn't help but wonder if Entreri was not unlike the young man when he was in his early twenties.

Few words were exchanged, but the two bounty hunters felt the tension that came right before the beginning of dangerous action. Neither expected things to go smoothly during the handoff, but neither doubted themselves. Entreri no longer entertained lingering doubts about his mental preparedness; his expectations were high, but only unreasonable when applied to others.

When they joined Sora for the journey to the fortress, the soldiers with him fell into step behind them. Entreri found it interesting that they made no attempts to lay their gloved hands on Casteja, but allowed him to walk with some semblance of dignity. Of course, the tactician wasn't as stoic as he wanted; a shudder ran down his body and a gasp ripped from his throat. Vritra had moved less and less over the journey, but apparently was making itself known more often again. The assassin idly wondered if the creature could die while under the man's skin.

Jarlaxle looked back at Casteja with interest, but said nothing to draw attention to the mishap. Ashrei's aide made no sign he even noticed; he only walked on staying slightly ahead of both bounty hunters. With Sora a few steps ahead, Entreri had ample time to study him while marking the direction they walked on their way through the darkened city.

The sense of familiarity was back and without a clear view of the young man's face, the assassin realized his recognition had nothing to do with physical features. Observing Sora on the sly, he was hit with a one-two punch of double recognition. He'd seen the institutionalized grace _and_ the casual cruelty before and it only brought a resurgence of damning anger.

Heat surged through his veins, threatening the periphery of his eyesight with dim red. The rage was sudden and nearly complete. A glance at his scheming partner nearly sent him over the edge in vengeful fury. It was a difficult thing, but Entreri controlled his anger, began to retreat into the cold calculations of necessity and hard logic. The only solution he could see to Jarlaxle's continued secrecy was betrayal. Not a forgiving man by any stretch of the imagination, Entreri revised his strategy options to include his ally as a possible aggressor.

The good news, he decided with cold efficiency, was that he really was over Vritra's attack; he was seeing and thinking clearly again.

The fortress was a worthy opponent against time's powers of erosion. Massive and solidly built, the huge structure was an ominous form rising out of the city like a dark god. Arrabar's fortress unleashed a wave of intimidation against her enemies and arrogance in those loyal to her. Entreri looked on it as a typical assassin and waited for time and proximity to unveil all its weak points.

Sora's uniform and face were recognized by the garrison and they were not delayed entry. The inside of the fortress was just as dark and foreboding as the outside; it reminded Entreri of Mithral Hall far to the north, only with the addition of the distant sound of the sea. It was a comparison that did not warm his heart or cause him to think kindly on it. The assassin thought little of such things; his dark eyes were scanning the corridors, marking the frequency of guards, numbering the locks on the gates they passed, and finding every nook and cranny available to one of his special skills. What served to make him uncomfortable, though it did not surprise him, was a strong feeling of being watched. He made no move to tip off his watcher, just as he had done over the years in Calimport.

By the time they ascended several floors and penetrated deeper levels of security, Entreri was convinced the architects of the great fortress had planned for invading armies to the exclusion of assailants attacking in the singular. Possible escape routes or future entries were plentiful for someone possessed of his nearly ridiculous level of skill. The assassin did not let down his guard, but he found himself feeling more comfortable with the surroundings rather than the situation. Increased security informed him of the imminent audience with Eles Wianar and his cruel general.

Entreri and Sora were a center of non-noise within the vaulted acoustics formed by the concussions of the rest of the party's hard boots; an open-ended cage of noise that rebounded from stone walls and soaked into closed doors. The young soldier halted outside one such door and rapped his knuckles against it. The lack of heavy ornamentation tipped the assassin off that the rooms beyond would not open onto the lush and spacious apartments of a man known as a 'Shining Lord.' The feeling of being observed grew stronger, but Entreri doubted it was the doing of Wianar's wizard from Thay.

The assassin noted the sound of the latch being thrown and the click of tumblers as a lock was freed. Were he possessed of Jarlaxle's sense of humor, Entreri would have found it amusing that the door was not immediately opened. Sora sighed, his released breath the embodiment of long-sufferance. Instead of waiting patiently outside as he had at the bounty hunters' door, he nudged it wide open with the reinforced toe of his boot.

The feeling of eyes boring into him faded to a low level the moment they walked into the foyer. There they met two more soldiers, both of whom were unremarkable in everyway except the aura of danger they wore like comfortable coats.

On the other side of the entry they saw a living area that was, predictably, dimly lit. What light there was to be had came from a glass and iron chandelier. It was a curious blend of rough iron scrollwork and delicate glass globes which held dancing gold and amber lights. The dark stained furniture was of sturdy Turmish make, though comprised of fragrant hardwoods from Chondalwood. What tapestries or cloth used in the furnishings were all of an equally dark and sensual red.

Before the assassin or dark elf mercenary stepped fully into the room, they heard the soft growl of a pleasantly feminine voice. "This is so much more than I hoped."

"Lady-General Ashrei," Jarlaxle smirked unnecessarily. Entreri was too deep into his professional calm to scowl at the mercenary for the commentary.

Even though she was seated, it was apparent Ashrei was tall, long of limb and waist; probably towering over both Jarlaxle and Entreri, putting her down-turned nose on a level with Casteja's bright blue eyes. She was dressed in soft soled boots that stretched over her knees and clambered up her lean thighs. Her shirt was little more than a thin shift of flesh-tone silk that lay over her skin without disguising her figure in the least. The material was not transparent, but the way it stretched invitingly over the peaks of her breasts left little to imagine.

Judging the direction of his partner's gaze, Entreri had no doubts that Jarlaxle appreciated the view. The assassin noticed, but remained aloof. It wasn't a topic he gave much thought, but if he were to admit his tastes, Ashrei's body fit the bill. Sweeping curves and lean muscle were an exotic mix in Calimport, where softness was the ideal women were expected to pursue. He understood that she oozed sensuality, but he was far from affected.

Seated beside her on an up-ended vase that looked too expensive to be used as a stool, a young boy of approximately eight years was studiously packing a delicate black pipe of exotic make. He fed the pipe from a tin balanced on the woman's muscular thigh. As she watched them enter, she leaned back in her seat with her arms behind her head and against a knot of formed of half her black satin hair held in place by two long tasseled sticks. Without looking away, she jogged her leg so the box jumped from her thigh. The child was forced to sweep a hand out to catch it before it dove for the floor. He snatched it out of the air with surprising alacrity and placed it safely on the desk with a peevish expression. The ease of the boy's movement, the lack of surprise, made it obvious he was not unused to unexpected movements.

Eyes the color of citrine looked curiously at Entreri, hungrily at Casteja, and finally at Jarlaxle with open suspicion. A graceful and callused hand opened to her side and the child placed the stem of the pipe into her fingers. When she tilted her head and led the stem to her full lips, the boy mumbled a few words and made exact motions with his small hands. A brilliant blue spark jumped into the pipe's small bowl, caught in the tobacco, and she sucked it to life with casual ease. Sitting up again, she blew streams of smoke through her nose, reminding more than one of the males of a scheming dragon, and tousled the boy's black hair playfully.

"Kiretheo, get our guests glasses and that special wine I've been saving: fetch water for you and Soraze." She commanded him in generous tones laced with a firmness they could easily imagine brooked no rebellion. "Be quick."

Obedient to the letter, the agile boy practically flew from the vase, but not before the woman slapped his backside with a delighted chuckle. He only ran faster, his bare feet padding softly across stone and silently over rugs.

"Isn't he cute?" She asked, looking over at Jarlaxle. "He has the delightful imagination Soraze lacks. Cunning boy. Not that Soraze completely lacks creativity, but it is a dour thing that has little use. And his sense of humor is flat."

Considering the conversation and her familiarity with the young boy, Entreri realized one or both might be her offspring. He noted the young officer didn't look the least bit insulted by his mistress', possibly mother's, insults. All the assassin detected was the barest twitch of the young man's left shoulder; the suggestion of a shrug. He saw little resemblance to the green-eyed female, but considering their tawny skin and dark hair, he didn't expect them to look alike. There was a spell of some sort disguising them.

When Jarlaxle replied his words confirmed everything the assassin already knew or suspected. He spoke in smooth, natural, flawless Drow. "He's adorable, but that's not why I'm here." Just as abruptly, he switched back to Common. "I'd rather talk about the reward for Master Vektch."

"You can cut the act," Entreri said, voice low and caustic, iron eyes piercing his partner only for a moment, before turning back to the general. "I'm sure we all speak Drow, though Vektch seems to only know the hand code you taught him."

Ashrei made no indication she heard either bounty hunter. "As much as I love to talk about my boys, we should turn to business."

Her proclamation came with smoke curling up on either side of her mouth. The assassin noted her expression softened slightly when she turned it from Jarlaxle to Casteja, but he wasn't convinced she was not purposely contriving the effect.

"'Steja." She stood from her chair in a languid motion embodied by tone muscle and feminine curves. She moved past Jarlaxle, her free hand trailing over the male's closest hand as she went. He watched her closely, mystifying calculations playing in his clear crimson eye. "I'll deal with you in a moment, mercenary."

When she reached Casteja, she took his bound hands and observed the strange wrapping around his left hand. "How is it that the only person in the room suffering Vritra's attacks is you?"

"Sneak attack," he whispered, though not a soul in the room misheard him. "I feign disability and allow myself to be captured in order to trick you into bringing me in past all your defenses. Now that I'm here, it won't be long before Vritra takes Eles and makes him surrender."

Smiling, she dropped his hands and kissed his forehead. "You leave me few choices, 'Steja. I'll negotiate with your captors and then see what I can do for you." She ran fingernails down his chest with affectionate suggestiveness. "It is going to be far more difficult to get time alone with you despite how skillfully you've penetrated my defenses.

"I'm quite surprised you're in such good condition," she added warmly. "No visible limp, both arms, and likely they've fed you. Or did you cook for them? You better not have made that lotus root thing; I'll get jealous."

The man shook his head. "No, but I taught Master Jarlaxle at least eight ways to prepare bull rushes. Tan and Narbeli were rather sick of those. Ah, yes. Your poison didn't kill my second."

"He survived, did he? And Narbeli?" She asked, casually reaching out to remove one of his heavy earrings. "You cooked for that elf? Tell me we slaughtered her or some especially beloved forest creature."

"Souvenir?" he snorted, as she took the other earring as well. "I don't believe I'll be giving you free information."

"Memento, actually. As for your allies, we can discuss that later, hopefully without the presence of hot irons and thumbscrews." She idly prodded at his left arm and noted his flinch. "I'm shocked you still have that arm, 'Steja. Whether Jarlaxle is craftier than he is greedy is the subject of much conjecture where I come from. I was certain he would have cut it off and still showed up for the reward."

"A subject I debate with myself," the dark elf mercenary interjected. "But never spend too much time on. If you come up with a well-documented hypothesis, please share it with me."

Ashrei snorted softly and looked over Casteja's broad shoulder at the doorway where the two soldiers that guarded her door stood. "Have him escorted downstairs and ironed while I settle payment with his captors."

Entreri didn't like allowing the two soldiers to take Casteja from the room, but doubted he had much choice. Based on Jarlaxle's set up in Bregan D'aerthe he could easily see all the markings of a firmly installed female. She was confident, amused, and they were standing in the middle of a web of her construction. The magical eyes on them weren't those of the Thayan wizard; likely they belonged to her allies. There was no doubt in his mind they were hemmed in and would have to rely on Jarlaxle's cunning to escape.

If he'd known what was at the center of Jarlaxle's scheming, he would have refused the mission from the start. That, of course, was why the frustrating male had kept the secret to himself and why Entreri felt manipulated and betrayed. Information was more than power, it was the key to survival; Jarlaxle had taken him into Arrabar blindfolded.

The room was silent as Ashrei walked back to her desk. Her lovely, disguised eyes swept over the maps and supply charts on her desk as well as a neglected mug of Chondath coffee. "Let's get down to the real business," she began, leaning back in her chair, gaze suddenly snapping up and colliding with Jarlaxle's smug expression.

Her short-nailed finger pointed at the male with lazy accusation. "You owe me, male. Soraze has no ambition, no initiative, no drive or determination. Considering his sire he should have some imagination, but I'm too attached to him to, shall we say, carve him up and feed him to the rest of my pride."

"I already said that's not why I'm here," Jarlaxle laughed, taking her accusations as he took almost everything else; without revealing his inner calculations. "But in the interests of keeping good relations with your so-called pride, we could discuss this after we receive our reward for the capture of Captain Vektch."

The soft pad of Kiretheo's footsteps on stone announced the boy as he arrived with two bottles and several crystal glasses. Entreri looked at the boy and recalled Bregan D'aerthe's brisk trade in live bodies. Jarlaxle's personal dealings with clients of the slave and skilled labor trade were usually limited to people of great importance. The assassin knew Ashrei was a skilled commander of troops, but he'd never heard of her in Menzoberranzan. Her accent in the Common tongue was perfectly Chondathan, but after several years of living in the country, that wasn't surprising. There was no telling where she was from or what kind of power she was used to wielding.

The ebony charger holding the boy's burden was placed on the upended vase he'd sat on earlier. Swift efficiency was in the lad's nature as could be seen as he poured chilled white wine and clear water into the crystal glasses. Grace that was completely drow elevated his movements from those of a child to those of a budding dancer.

Ashrei smiled at Jarlaxle, a wicked glint turning her expression malevolent. Things appeared to be moving along. Entreri dropped a hand to his dagger the moment she reached down to her desk and pulled open a drawer. Her hand came away with several coins that reflected the dancing gold and amber light from the magical chandelier. The assassin kept his hand on his dagger hilt all the same. With exact motions, she placed individual coins on the edge of the desk closest to the bounty hunters.

While Ashrei placed the coins, Kiretheo gave Jarlaxle a glass. When he came to Entreri the assassin turned the boy back without a glance. Obviously the female had gotten a better deal with the child; even better if he was a product of her relationship with Casteja. As far as the assassin was concerned, if the child was capable of magic, he was more a possible target than an object to grant mercy. Rolling his eyes at the lack of recognition, the Kiretheo took Sorave a glass of water instead.

The flow of coins stopped the moment the broadside of the desk's edge was lined. She smirked at Jarlaxle through narrowed eyes. "I think fifty should cover the bounty after I take what is rightfully mine."

"Ashrei, my bewitching beauty, I can see you won't rest until the matter is put to rest," the wily male sighed. He took the monstrous hat off his head and held it over his chest while bowing ingratiatingly. "Let's don't be difficult. If you would recall our contract from some fifty years past, you will remember the clause that specified that Bregan D'aerthe absolutely, under no circumstances, can be held liable for goods and services rendered."

A feline smile curved over the general's face as Jarlaxle wove his disclaimer with an air of patience and a hint of Soraze's long suffering. Ashrei leaned forward on her elbows and took the pipe away from her lips in order to sip the chilled white wine Kiretheo had poured.

"Soraze has displayed nothing but intelligence and even cunning the entire time we have been in his company," the mercenary continued, sipping at his own glass. "Therefore, even if there was some liability, which none can be construed, I and my lieutenants would still deny your claim. However, if you wish to make a new contract, I'd be more than happy to facilitate new arrangements at a discounted fee."

"Tell me something, Jarlaxle," she murmured around the stem of her pipe. "I first caught word of you when our spies saw you in Iljak. You made no effort to disguise yourself. Why is that?"

"Disguises were suggested," Entreri snorted, glaring at his partner yet again. It seemed Kimmuriel hadn't invaded the city guards' minds at all; she'd been waiting for them the whole time. The thought triggered a recent memory; hadn't Jarlaxle laughed when he'd sarcastically suggested the key to the city was available to the first drow that came to the city? The assassin made a mental tally. Jarlaxle had lied by omission; he must have suspected Ashrei's influence more than Kimmuriel's at the gate. No wonder they had yet to see Eles Wianar; this part of the game was between dark elves alone. Entreri was far beyond pleased and learning to hate drow more by the second.

"You obviously knew I was here and in the interests of scouting you out, I left you alone. And yet, there you were, accompanying my poisonous stab at 'Steja's commanders." Her eyes sent a glance to where the tactician had previously stood wrestling with the pain writhing under his skin. "I knew he'd give the potions away, even though he can't control when Vritra heals him. He always survives, calculating and lucky male that he is."

She turned again to Jarlaxle, never giving Entreri a glance. Despite the lack of eye contact, Entreri did not feel as if she were not keeping tabs on him. The intensity of the gaze he'd felt on them since before they entered the room meant she wasn't the only one. Her refusal to notice him made sense; all he wanted was the bounty and Jarlaxle was in the way. She was likely counting on plans of insurrection. Plans she had no part in inspiring.

"You came here for a reason," she laughed softly, one short fingernail drawing a curl of wood up from her desk with careless and destructive abandon. "Traveling in Chondath with a Calishite and without a disguise? You wanted me to notice you. Of course, I'm the type of girl that doesn't play those games. Tell me what you want, my spurious little spider-kisser?"

Jarlaxle feigned a wince at the derogatory remark. "Please, Ashrei, such bitter regard for Lolth; little wonder you have no female children. You could be a high priestess if you weren't so irreverent."

She snorted smoke. "Pluck that creature's legs for all I care; I never wanted to be a priestess. I won't fuck dog demons with pincers for kicks. Vhaeraun's male-only priesthood crap was just as limiting, though planning wars with and against his people was entertaining. I almost threw in with Kiaransalee, just for the challenge, but her priestesses didn't like my inconstant reputation. So leave the powers-that-be out of it; I do."

Enjoying himself, Jarlaxle placed his hat back on his head and leaned against the corner of her desk. "As for me not using a disguise; who goes by her name up here in the sunshine? Is that not the drow calling the kettle black? Honestly, I wanted to see what you were doing up here. Last I heard you were with Vhaeraun's crowd. What brought you so far from home?" Entreri recognized Jarlaxle was using the same tone of voice the wretch had used with Sharlotta, though it was never necessary to get the woman's shapely legs askew.

"You don't already know?" The feline grin stretched into something far more wicked, limned as it was in smoke. She reached across the desk and ran weapon toughened fingers up the inside of Jarlaxle's hand, along the skin between his thumb and index finger. "As they say around here, there's no such thing as a free lunch."

She pulled lightly at the soft skin beside his thumb, her citrine eyes dark with something Entreri wasn't sure he would identify as desire. Her hand retreated, fingertips caressing the back of Jarlaxle's hand lingeringly. "Your power has always rested within possibilities. No one ever knows when Jarlaxle is bluffing. Who is lined up this time behind mercurial Jarlaxle and Bregan D'aerthe? You've demonstrated time and again what happens to those who don't sort out the right possibilities. You've always been smart that way."

"You are far too kind," Jarlaxle replied smoothly, easily capturing her retreating hand by her long weapon-toughened fingers. "Such behavior only makes me wonder what you're up to."

"And I am here to tell you," she continued, her fingers curling into Jarlaxle's grasp so it was hard to say whose hand gripped whose, "that you must have considered that I know the game, but thought me an unskilled player." Her light green eyes crinkled in amusement, like a cat playing with her prey. "After all the possibilities are destroyed, mercenary, all that is left is reality. I'm ready to hold you here until I have broken all your graven images."


	12. three springs

How does PotWK affect my writing? At this point I can confidently state that DTH and PotWK are not compatible. DTH is officially mildly AU (alternate universe). In other words, the events in PotWK and the short story, _Wickless in the Nether_, do not take place in the _Devil Takes Hindmost_ setting.

* * *

"_Barbed like sex  
__I felt ten thousand volts  
__My chest was full of eels  
__Pushing through my usual skin  
__I opened up new wounds  
__Pouting, Shouting—"  
_-Siouxsie & the Banshees, _Cascade_

_three springs_

Entreri was calm and cold as death in waiting. Like Jarlaxle to his right, both his arms were held wide from his torso, beyond what passed for his least comfortable reach. The stretch wouldn't have been bad if his wrists weren't encircled in unforgiving iron and bolted directly into frigid stone. The cold reached into his body through the wall and contracted his muscles, locking them in a more uncomfortable manner than the manacles on his wrists.

Complicating matters was a movement-stifling contraption with iron rings that slipped over his fingers. The rings were fitted with leather straps that threaded through another ring of iron on each manacle. The straps were pulled through the rings, bending his fingers back until they were at an extreme angle above his wrists.

It had been a point of interest to the jailers that Entreri's fingers and hands had turned out more flexible than Jarlaxle's, for he was utterly human. It was decided that perhaps the rumors of Calishites being related to desert demons were not as unfounded as supposed. Entreri didn't care enough to correct them on the difference between demons and djinn; what did he care about the opinions of future corpses?

His imprisonment within the frigid humidity inside the fortress' bowels could be blamed squarely on Jarlaxle. The assassin had wanted to bathe his hands in Ashrei's blood, but Jarlaxle had surrendered on the spot.

Logically, Entreri understood they were outmatched: five years was more than enough time for the female to place her defenses. He knew from experience that she presented herself bare of armor, with only a dagger on her hip, because she was completely confident in her other defenses. The eyes he'd felt on them were likely those of a mage, her skin was probably sheathed in a stoneskin enchantment, and multiple poisoned darts were likely trained on them from every angle.

Jarlaxle was right to surrender, but it didn't make Entreri think anymore kindly on him. The immediate issues moving through his mind were neither esoteric nor philosophical and did not deviate far from murder most foul.

"Come now, the silent treatment is so childish."

The voice belonged to his onetime ally but now possible enemy through casual betrayal. The room was pitch black, the sort of complete blackness that took him straight back to the claustrophobic confines of the Underdark. It also dragged him back to face inner demons he'd discovered within the damned underground domain claimed by dark elves: dark elves that appeared to be not unlike Jarlaxle. Physically or mentally Artemis Entreri was not in a happy place.

"I must make do," Entreri replied in a voice far harsher than the stone cramping their flesh, "as the adult option of slitting your throat is currently unavailable."

The use of Calishite and the utter lack of humor in the assassin's voice was clue enough that the man was deadly serious. Jarlaxle sighed silently and turned his head to look at his partner through the colorful spectrum of infravision. Looking over the warm field of a bent back palm, he saw the man's defiant profile and the heat of his breath as it swirled the air before his face. Jarlaxle appreciated both the beauty of infravision and the complexities of the killer at his side.

Slipping through the man's various layers of defense to uncover the personality within was a long and arduous process, but ultimately rewarding. Only to have his work swept away in the matter of a few moments. Entreri was as cold and hard as he had been a few years prior when he had first understood he was trapped in Menzoberranzan. The assassin was no longer broken of body and tortured of mind as he had been then, rendering his current murderous personal armor as formidable as the mercenary had ever witnessed. The assassin was cloaked in his former mien; the cool promise of imminent, unfeeling, death.

It was the extreme reaction that came of betrayal, Jarlaxle mused. Had he betrayed the man? He thought not; if the man trusted his pragmaticism, he would know as much. There was nothing to be gained in betraying Entreri. So, no, the mercenary thought, there had been no betrayal.

However, as his two red eyes focused on the assassin, he knew that his reasoning, though sound, was not completely accurate. The signature of the man's body heat was indicative of ruthlessly contained rage. If he hadn't seen it from Entreri before, he would not be certain. The effect of the realization was unexpected; Jarlaxle felt a fledgling emotion stir within him that was almost totally alien. Dropping his chin to his chest to think, the dark elf isolated the feeling to examine it. He was certain there was no word for it in Drow.

"I have a plan for you to consider." The new voice in the darkness was familiar to both sell-swords. Previously their prisoner, but now their brother in chains, Casteja Vektch did not sound at all wilted for his imprisonment.

Despite the blackness, Entreri had no problem looking in Casteja's direction. Thanks to the vision he'd inherited from killing a shade with his vampiric, and currently confiscated, dagger he could see the man chained loosely to the adjoining wall. It was obvious Ashrei was less concerned about Vektch's ability to escape.

"If I manage to break loose," the tactician said, "and return to free you, it would be in your best interests to escape with me. That being the case, I would be willing to contract your services that you might come back at a later time to assassinate Wianar as I originally desired."

"I agree to the first," Entreri snorted, "but not the second. I'm through with this stinking, humid, insect-ridden quagmire of a country."

The lack of his inclusion in the statement was not lost on Jarlaxle. "We agree to the first, then. But tell me, my friend, how do you expect to escape? You are far less equipped to break free than are we; you have but one arm."

"You think you know Vritra," Casteja replied, his voice cool with steely determination, "but I doubt anyone could know Vritra even if they had a thousand years to observe it. Only the ignorant can know it inside and out."

"You don't strike me as ignorant, but if you are, does that mean you can escape even with the glove muting it?" Jarlaxle asked in curiosity and not a little hope. "Then you were hoping to be captured this whole time? As you said before?"

The man laughed quietly in response. "No, you would never find me so selfless; I am simply happy to take advantage of the situation I find myself within. Now I am here, that is my plan. If they take me to torture, I will return to set you free."

"They will take you to torture," Entreri assured the man. "You should be quick to escape their torments, since I have no intention of waiting long for your return."

Just barely, Entreri caught the dim impression of the man's sarcastic expression. "I doubt it will take long; just pray I can reason with Vritra to hold back the initial onslaught. And think charitable thoughts of me while you're at it; Vritra doesn't obey my commands, only takes my thoughts under consideration."

"Does it not?" Jarlaxle mused, his thoughtful tone drawing a disgusted sneer on Entreri's face. "I supposed you had less control over it when your cleric was drawing on his deity for support and Vritra struck out his thoughts. Why is that?"

"Vritra hates gods," Casteja replied, his voice carefully even, but Jarlaxle's infravision clearly showed the brightness of the man's heart as it pumped a bit harder in reaction. "Did Vritra's reaction enable you to kill my lieutenant?"

"Quickly," the dark elf stated with infrequent honesty. "Is this why Vritra has yet to attack Ashrei? Her lack of loyalty to any deity?"

"No," came the flat response and a slight increase in body temperature. "When I first met Ashrei she seemed rather devoted to a deity called Vhaeraun. She was the lead tactician and general for a city planning a surface invasion and was romantically attached to the high priest of said city. I think Kiretheo is the result of that union; he was little more than an infant at the time."

"That was almost ten years ago," Jarlaxle commented, chuckling, "and it was assumed she planned the surface invasion and then defected to the surface to see if she could defeat her own preparations. She may swear against Lolth, but the Spider Queen's bite bleeds deep.

"But tell me, friend Casteja," the calculating drow continued, picking up on an obvious cue, "how is it you met the infamous Fickle General, Ashrei? It sounds as if you were below ground."

Listening with pragmatic interest, Entreri grew more focused on the revealing conversation. While the two conversed he'd had ample time to consider more than Jarlaxle's treachery; he was considering closely what he knew of Vritra in the event he would have to contend with the damned thing again without his gauntlet.

A low snort rebuffed Jarlaxle's inquiry. "That answer comes on the heels of your interest. Why take all this trouble to meet her if you already know her?"

In the context of imprisonment, with a deadly ally verging on enemy, Jarlaxle was not unprepared for the inquiry, but he didn't welcome it. For more than a tenday he had evaded Entreri's many roundabout ways of proposing a similar question and deflected solidly every approach the assassin had taken. If he told Casteja the naked truth, it would not win back his companion's loyalty.

"Many reasons," Jarlaxle replied, his tone perfectly matter-of-fact. "Not the least of which being that Ashrei is wanted by her former high priest lover. I don't intend to capture her, but information on such an important female is of significant value, as is blackmail. If I came here directly, she would prove less accommodating."

"You call this accommodating?" Entreri asked, his anger growing far more frigid. He didn't believe Jarlaxle was giving Casteja the full truth, but it sounded far more accurate a picture than anything he'd yet confided in the assassin.

It was all give and take with Jarlaxle, he thought bitterly, tit for tat. A score card of meticulously tallied profits which the assassin, no true respecter of money, was not concerned. What was money to a man with the sort of power Entreri held? If he needed wealth, he took it. If he wanted fame, he made it. Money was nothing in the face of power and control.

The problem with Jarlaxle was that money, power, nor control bought actual loyalty or friendship of any worth. Entreri's kinder emotions were rarer than black diamonds and once found they were easily curdled into quick poison.

"Compared to being dead, yes," the dark elf replied, but kept his focus on Casteja. "And so, friend Casteja, how did you come to meet and, perhaps, grow to love the famously fickle Ashrei? From everything I know of her, you aren't her type."

The man smiled into the darkness, his eyes lit with a dark sort of wisdom. "Love is a game that we play on a field of fire," he said, his chains slithering against stone with a shrug of his broad shoulders. "We never know when we will be burned, but we are assured our hearts will be turned to cinders and ash. Ashrei and I are playing that game and very soon one or both of us will be burned. It is the best possible love affair."

"As exciting as that sounds, I think you have a mother complex," Jarlaxle shrugged, sending the man into muffled laughter. "But it doesn't answer my original question."

"I met her underground," Casteja admitted. "Vritra and I were in the possession of an enclave of those tentacle-faced things and when we broke out we were, more or less, lost in the blackness. Ashrei happened to be in the area on her way to negotiate with the ugly creatures and found us instead."

Jarlaxle didn't bother asking the man why illithids would want him; Vritra was an obvious draw for creatures who were masters of the silent magic and gifted with insatiably studious minds. "How did they capture the two of you?"

"I'm not sure," the man said simply, his voice hinting at bemusement. "I wasn't altogether there at the time. Mentally, at any rate."

Casteja's answer was curious, but not available for immediate question, for even as he pronounced it, their cell's arrangement of complex locks began to ring with the hollow sounds of their mechanisms coming undone.

On the way into the cell, Entreri had counted all the locks, noted the sounds they made as they were fastened and set. Hearing them open reinforced his impression of what he'd seen and heard before. They weren't beyond his skill, but he was not on the right side of the door to be truly effective at defeating them.

A vertical seam of dim light announced their visitor. The seam widened and lantern light flooded in, setting all three occupants to squinting against the sudden brightness. Cloaked in bright orange light and shadows, Ashrei stepped through the breach with a lantern in hand, while Soraze and another soldier waited outside.

"Good morning," Jarlaxle drawled, his smile slanting wryly on his face as he switched out of infravision. He noted a gleam of green on her side and realized she wore Entreri's jeweled dagger in place of her previous weapon. A soft snort from his side told him the assassin saw the same thing and marked it as a fortunate turn of events.

The door closed behind Ashrei as the tall woman hung her lamp on one of the iron hooks above and to the side of Casteja's head. She cast a patient smile at Jarlaxle's greeting but then turned her gaze to Entreri's flat glare; it was the first time she made eye contact with the assassin. "You should be happy to know that we've lost no less than three soldiers to that cursed sword of yours. It is almost in league with Vritra."

"You'll lose far more than that," Entreri promised, "when I decide to depart the premises."

She shrugged away the statement and patted the vampiric dagger on her hip. "Not if I plant this in you first. I should have known that if Jarlaxle was going to travel without Bregan D'aerthe, there would be somebody at his side with useful magic items."

"You know me too well," Jarlaxle commented dryly, indicating that his statement should be taken strictly as sarcasm.

Obviously possessing a nature that was inclusive of teasing, Ashrei chuckled at the remark. "Merely in the context of our business dealings. I cannot fathom why you arrived here without your usual back up. If not for natural paranoia, I would have simply thrown you out of the city. You should tell me the real reason you're here."

"I told you," Jarlaxle grinned, his teeth gleaming in the firelight. "I'm after the reward."

"Among other things, I'm sure." She shook her magnificent mane of hair, sending the tassels on her long hair sticks dancing behind her. "But I'm not here to see you."

Sighing dramatically, she swept downward to straddle Casteja's thighs and sit lightly on his knees. The grace and poise that came with drow, especially those used to commanding others of their treacherous kind, was startling even when she casually placed her elbows on Casteja's shoulders and rested her chin on the linked nest of her hands.

"Eles is planning on starting the torture first thing this morning, 'Steja," she said softly, but with a firmness that shaped her husky voice. "You have no idea how pissed off I will be if you push me into letting him do that. I know torture won't work on you, but Eles doesn't believe it. Let's reason this out together."

"Rot. I'm no stranger to reason," the man smiled, "but I honestly don't know what my troops are going to do now. I schooled them to abandon our immediate plans if I were to disappear."

"Then tell me those plans, so I know what I won't need to expect," she replied, freeing one hand to trace his dry lips as she spoke. "It will take months before Eles will figure out how resilient you are. He doesn't understand that you carry over your patience from the battlefield in all you do. Tell me, not for yourself, but because I don't think I can remain attracted to a disfigured man. Bad enough that you're human, an ugliness is too much."

The dancing flames inside the lantern warped Casteja's amused expression, but his voice was clear in the stillness. "No."

Ashrei sat back on his knees, frowning profoundly and setting her hands on her hips. "Damn you, Casteja Vektch; you and your unwavering 'no.'"

"So tell me, as one of the most famous tacticians in the Underdark," Jarlaxle interrupted in a voice that reminded Entreri of a leopard's rumbling purr, "is it humbling to be bested by a human male?"

Ashrei had the grace to return the question with a wicked grin over her tone shoulder, despite her annoyance. "You would enjoy that, wouldn't you? Regardless, he hasn't won."

"You lost five years ago," Casteja sighed in the attitude of a man who is dealing with a child that continues to insist one plus one equals eleven.

"That's not what I said," Ashrei returned, shaking her hair out over one shoulder. Jarlaxle and Casteja watched the ends of her hair dance along the top of her breasts as she combed it out with her fingers. Entreri noted the display, but was too suspicious to see it as anything other than the distraction it was. "I said you _haven't won_, not that I _haven't lost_. According to the terms of the wager, one of us has to surrender."

"No, one _side_ has to surrender or be completely defeated," he corrected. "In that case I have won on every front except securing a surrender or complete defeat of your military. But that won't be necessary. You only prolong the inevitable with your draconian tactics. You need to think more like a human to win this, but without human limitations.

"Some free advice: stop tormenting the farmers or you will become dependent on outside markets to supply your troops. Arrabar doesn't have the money to support that, especially with the way Eles allows the nobility to raid outside the borders. Buying from Sembia and Sespech at inflated prices puts your money in my pockets as it is. The continued brutality and alliance with Thay isolates the government in Arrabar and buys me increasingly blatant support from the governor in Sespech. If Sespech or Sembia were run by the government out of Silverymoon, I'd have incited them to intervene on behalf of the Chondathan people by now. Such upright and moral people make things simple."

"And you should be a little more paranoid of your allies. Did you never consider how Tan got his hands on that poison? Did you think my hatred of Narbeli precluded using her? She betrayed you to me. You should surrender," Ashrei murmured, her smile fading away. The finely shaped female leaned forward and softly scraped her fingernails along the four pink scars on his face. "There's so much more where these came from that I don't want to give you."

"Bitch," Casteja sighed without venom.

Her fingertips were backed up by the heated contours of her full lips, brushing along the scars. Jarlaxle was unsurprised to see smoky looks exchanged between jewel-green and bright blue eyes right before Casteja turned his head to brush his mouth against his captor's. Amused by the display, Jarlaxle cast a smirk to his side. His glance at Entreri revealed a dark mask tainted faintly with disgust.

"A bet," the assassin scoffed in Calishite. "All this trouble for a simple wager. Though I'm not surprised to hear he was on both Sespech and Sembia's payrolls. My thanks, Jarlaxle; my lack of faith in the world is reaffirmed."

The words communicated the man's slow progression toward finding simple pleasures in life had halted. He doubled back toward paranoid cynicism at an incredible rate. "It isn't as bad as you think, Entreri." Jarlaxle replied in the same language. He eschewed the use of the assassin's personal name in order to avoid feeding the cold burn of the man's anger. "It isn't as if I did not foresee this sort of reception." No, he'd simply thought it farfetched. "Even without our brilliant tactician she would release us; she won't chance making Bregan D'aerthe an enemy. She's only doing this to get what she wants."

"Somehow I do not feel reassured," Entreri stated with little emotion. "Agree to get her a new child and be done with this." He took his dark gaze off his fellow prisoner and back toward Ashrei and Casteja, only to find the two deeply involved in a heated round of passionate kissing. An exasperated sigh filled his lungs despite the strain the cold stone and stretched arms were inflicting on his chest. He doubted Jarlaxle would make a straightforward concession: in dark elven culture such a thing only proved weakness.

If he had continued to watch Jarlaxle, he would have witnessed the male's wry smile. What the female wanted would take time and a certain kind of concession he didn't like to make.

True to form, Jarlaxle decided to divide and conquer: one part of his mind explored the intricacies of the problems he'd brought on himself by pointlessly, habitually, keeping Entreri in the dark. The other part, the part given to finding enjoyment in any situation, observed the lovers against the adjoining wall. The sight made his decisions easier, which he surmised was the idea behind the display.

"Do you have any idea how long I've fantasized about this moment?" Ashrei snickered when there was sufficient pause between open-mouthed kisses.

Casteja's smart remark came as no surprise. "Getting me chained to a wall? Since the moment you laid eyes on me."

She shook her head while combing her fingers through his dark hair. "No, getting a chance to screw you blind without that hideous eye watching."

"Ah. Since the moment you laid eyes on Vritra, then."

Another quiet laugh shook her lithe form, but did not distract her from continuing to slide her fingers through his long hair. "The moment I understood you think like no other creature I have ever met. And here Vritra's power is packed away and you still have the same mind. A lesser male would have lost his sanity after going through the same things, but you came out of it with precious advancements."

"Does this mean you're no longer impressed with my lack of fear for your kind?" He tilted his head forward in order to lightly bite her chin. "Don't waste your breath on that; the question was rhetorical. Answer me this instead: are you just teasing me or do you really plan on raping me with four less hideous eyes watching?"

A delighted laugh issued from her mouth, a pleasant noise if not a pleasant situation to hear it. She lifted her feet from the floor and wrapped her legs around his waist, crossing them at the ankles. "You mean there were no public displays of affection in the old days?" She constricted her legs, pulling their bodies closer together. "You yourself told me that humankind was too short-sighted to enjoy true decadence without destroying itself. Besides, with your knowledge of human ecology, you should know humans can't see in the dark."

"And you don't mind the other?" Casteja murmured, as the female drew Entreri's emerald studded dagger and began to cut open the front of her lover's pale shirt. He knew Entreri's night vision was sharp, but neither understood it went well beyond what was normal. The assassin, even though he did not want to watch, wanted to conceal his advantage and said nothing.

"It isn't shocking for a male to see a female have sex and not participate," she whispered back, sheathing the dagger and slipping her hands under the straight-cut edges of the material covering his chest. "Jarlaxle is a hot commodity where we come from. I'm sure he's turned the tables on drow females in the past and probably pleased himself while they looked on in hunger. However, I can assure you that infravision does not allow much of a show."

"Then put out the lantern…"

Entreri was less than impressed and hoped Jarlaxle, once mentioned, would not remind the general of their presence anymore than necessary by taking a renewed role in the conversation. Of course, Entreri placed no real value in non-starters like hope and for good reason. "Hold your tongue."

Not one to let anyone tell him what to do any more than Entreri would, Jarlaxle almost spoke to spite his ally: then closed his mouth with a sigh. If he wanted to win Entreri back, annoying him wasn't the way to go. For a moment he questioned his resolve in salvaging the strange relationship. As much as it pained him to do so, he knew it would help his situation with Entreri to fill the man in.

When Ashrei blew out the lantern, her eyes shone red in the darkness, just as menacing as Jarlaxle's. She sent an obvious look the mercenary's way before turning back to her human lover. The dark elf smirked at the unnecessary signal; he knew what she was doing and why.

He watched with interest and a rueful expression as her experienced hands unbuckled Casteja's belt, loosened his trousers, and rose up to scratch down his chest. Casteja was hardly unwilling: he brought his face forward to find her neck and followed the hem of her clinging silk shirt until he found the dip between her breasts. From there he made short work of the garment, pulling the top edge out and down with his teeth in order to reveal the full skin of one breast to the frigid air and his heated tongue and white teeth.

"Do they have shows like this in Calimport?" Jarlaxle asked casually in perfect, and quiet, Calishite. "I don't think I ever went to one there."

"Why would you? Surely Sharlotta was performer enough," the human fighter replied in monotone, his gaze trained forward, unseeing. As he spoke he began to scud his chin in a scraping motion across his collar. "Or did she put the whore back in horrible? They have such performances in Calimport, if you know where to look and coin enough to buy the sight. They aren't legal, but legalities only affect price, not availability."

"Of course, this isn't so much a show," Jarlaxle sighed, "as torture. Back when she contracted Bregan D'aerthe for my services, I did all the work. Now I see I should never have collected a fee; it would have been much more fun. No doubt that's what this is about."

"_Your_ services?" The assassin was incredulous despite himself. First he was struck with the repulsive idea that Jarlaxle had taken money for sex, but then the next conclusion hit him like a brick. Soraze was not part of Bregan D'aerthe's slave trade; he was the result of a sexual contract between Ashrei and Jarlaxle. The assassin, despite his perfect control, felt his head spin for a moment. He could not understand why the information would disturb him, but it was like Casteja's pulverizing swing straight to the solar plexus.

"Whore…" the man said, his voice verging strangely between icy and breathy. Entreri was working hard, shutting down foreign emotional impulses as quickly as they surfaced. He thought he'd either answered or killed every stray impulse in regard to his aversion to sexual conduct. Obviously not. Was it lingering traces of Vritra's influence? He seized the idea, preferring it to the possibility of decades-old scar tissue from something he did not think about.

"Whore?" Jarlaxle noted the strange character of the assassin's voice, was surprised by the heat rising and then leaving Entreri's face. He had yet to discern the man's past, but he had ideas and the remarkable reaction fueled his interest. Entreri's professionalism led him to steer clear of sexual liaisons, but perhaps that was nothing more than a convenient excuse. Perhaps Entreri's hatred of Sharlotta's methods, his bizarre loathing for prostitutes, had roots in his past.

The dark elf wondered idly if the assassin had been successfully assaulted on the filthy streets of Calimport when he was young. Did a whore rat him out early in his career, as whores commonly did? Sharlotta had little information on the man beyond his career; for Entreri was only now struggling to be something beyond his nefarious occupation.

It took Entreri a moment to realize that he had stopped rubbing at his collar with his chin. He'd started the motion on the assumption he could get one of the many ornaments on the necklace in his teeth. The chain was similar in design to the one he had lost the night Kadran Gordeon had felt the burning edge of his defiance.

"Come now," Jarlaxle scoffed, "you know of such arrangements. Do not the princes of Calimshan command monumental fees for their stallions' stud services? Do you recall the legendary demand for that brute, Uthegental Armgo? Do you think the lichdrow of Agrach Dyrr, as much as he disdains warm bodies, has overlooked the idea of building a psionic breed within his house since Oblodra was destroyed? In fact, that is the source of young Jakadirek Mi'iduor; a matron mother who bought a wild talent patron from Oblodra. It isn't so strange."

The assassin heard the drow, but his mind superimposed an image of Kohrin Soulez's daughter, Ahdania over terminally bored Soraze. In strange counterpoint, his eyes took in the sight of Ashrei's lithe body and the passionate war she was waging with her captive lover. There was more fire in her eyes than a hundred street walkers could ever fake. The same could be said of crafty Jarlaxle, but he didn't know what that meant. He had seen fire before; in eyes the same shade of gray.

He glanced over at Jarlaxle, suddenly suspicious. Suspicion was much easier to deal with than the conflicting things bubbling deep under his skin. He needed to think of something else and push the unwanted thoughts with all their unnecessary impulses far away. The less he thought about the past, the more he could control his future. Mercilessly, he pressed the turmoil down, as one would compress an iron spring. Suspicion could save him trouble.

"Why are you telling me this?" Jarlaxle had proven his inability to speak straight, if he was revealing information he had kept secret with no good reason, it was strange to suddenly have it given without fuss.

"Better late than never," the mercenary snorted, looking back to the sight of growing heat nearby. Ashrei had failed to tell Casteja the truth of infravision; he could see quite a bit more detail than she had implied. He spared a corner of his mind to thank the devious female's foresight. In the forefront of his mind, he was considering his own foreign emotion. It was locked down again for examination, even as he watched the lovers and contemplated Entreri. Curiously, the nebulous feeling still defied definition and ran mysterious fingers along his defensive impulses.

"Try the truth," the assassin grated, feeling the words hiss through teeth that his tensing jaw sought to compress. He was aware of the dull ache from his bent-back fingers, but more so when they flexed reflexively forward and shot needle pricks of pain up the taut tendons.

At least the man was speaking to him, Jarlaxle noted, turning to openly study the man's profile. Heat patterns, the flow of blood through the body, spoke volumes to drow who were all learned in reading the most subtle movements. He saw an increased heart rate, heat spreading out across his hands as the man reflexively strained at the restraints on his hands. The strange emotion grew with the sight and more thoroughly prodded Jarlaxle's pride. "Why do you want the truth? I thought you had nothing better to do than go along with my flights of fancy."

The narrowing of the assassin's eyes was answer enough. Entreri made no other response, but resumed scraping at his collar with his chin. It was slow going, but he almost had the ornament he wanted. He began to shut everything out, the growing passion across from him, the infuriating drow at his side, the pain of cold stone and constricting muscles and, most importantly, the old and new stacked feelings of betrayal. There was nothing but the necklace; left to him thanks to its lack of magic emanations.

"I tell you now," Jarlaxle finally admitted, feeling things were possibly a step beyond a critical moment, "because you should have more information than our opponents. I didn't tell you before because I didn't think it mattered."

The barrel-shaped ornament was resting in the shallow channel between Entreri's clavicle and shoulder. He had to be mindful not to transfer too much of his heat to the item when he picked it up, lest Ashrei notice the item's non-organic shape. "I had nothing better to do than meet the challenges your flights of fancy brought, but I have better things to do than be a simple tool in Jarlaxle's repertoire."

As far as the assassin was concerned, it was the last word on the topic. It failed to be wasted breath simply because he needed to exhale before taking the ornament in his teeth.

The man's words caused another wave of emotion to slither in the crafty dark elf's chaotic heart. He recognized the direct correlation between the feeling and Entreri's matter-of-fact accusation. The assassin was claiming that he'd been used and that took Jarlaxle's mind off the heated physical conversation he'd been enjoying. He devoted his whole attention to the cause and effect of the alien emotion.

With his undivided concentration once again focused on the question the answer reared up in his mind. It came to him in a sloppy package straight from the Common tongue, stamped with all the alien philosophical implications the concept entailed.

Crimson eyes, not unlike the illicit color of spilled blood, darted to the side to behold the human assassin. Some of the patches of heat that made up the man's form in infravision were akin to the color of Jarlaxle's eyes. A fitting color for a killer to wear, the dark elf thought, Entreri always looked appropriate to heat-sensing eyes. But that was background, the foreground was more direct. The closest word to the bizarre manifestation of emotion was not available to him in his native tongue because it did not exist within the realms of their verbal or nonverbal vocabulary.

In the Common surface tongue it was called contrition and every fiber of Jarlaxle's dark elven being rejected it with full force.

Fortunately for Jarlaxle, he did not limit himself to drow behavior alone. He had transcended chaotic dark elven society on wings of open-mindedness that defied the paradoxically rigid laws of their culture. In embracing a mindset that sought to minimize senseless limitations, the hedonistic third son of house Baenre who was spared Lolth's rapacious jaws, the former leader of opportunistic Bregan D'aerthe, and enterprising male that he was, Jarlaxle had discovered there was pleasure to be had in the happiness of others.

His was not an altruistic heart, for giving pleasure enhanced his own. Nor was his heart particularly kind, for he delighted in the agony of his opponents, but it was still a heart and he liked to indulge it. In this corrupt cultivation of conflicting elements, he found the capacity to form friendships; Zaknafein Do'Urden being one of the first and Artemis Entreri being the most recent. The problem, of course, was that he was suddenly aware that rather than indulging himself with the sweetness of pointlessly annoying the assassin and reveling in unnecessary secrecy, he had brought on a real betrayal of friendship.

Betrayal didn't usually bother Jarlaxle; it was in his blood. It was suddenly unpalatable because he had indulged his heart a bit too much by enjoying Entreri's sour company. He had gone beyond a simple friendship based on mutual profit and into the realm of fond affection. He would call it brotherly affection, but for the glaring issue of dark elven institution of fratricide.

Like the assassin, he was not one for bouts of introspection, much preferring to bask in the attention others gave him. He had an understanding of what he was feeling and he dared hope it would catapult his quick wits in the correct direction to salvage the strange vice he knew as friendship.

Attention divided unequally between the sounds and peripheral vision of Ashrei and Casteja's lovemaking and the more important task of manipulating the deceptive ornament in his teeth, Entreri was unaware of Jarlaxle's epiphany. He had managed to open the jeweled object far enough that gravity released the glass capsule contained therein to the circular opening at the bottom. It did not fall out thanks to the spring encircling it, but the moment he closed the ornament again with his teeth, the spring would constrict and he'd be ready to depress the clasp.

As long as his body heat did not alert Ashrei or soften the metal too much, and his aim was good, he had a potent bead of strong acid to shatter against one of the leather bands constricting his fingers. All he needed was a finger free and he was sure he could slip the rest out of the locking rings and get to work on slipping his hand free of the manacle.

He blew a sigh through his nose; his chances were entirely too dependent on a bit of spring and a bubble of glass. There was always the possibility he could miss completely, or more amusingly, melt off a finger in the process. If he could trust Jarlaxle, it would be simple enough to have the dark elf use his levitation to deliver the acid where it needed to go. Though he doubted the drow had the sort of control the maneuver would require.

Turning the lion's share of his attention away from his project, he tried to gauge the progress of heated sex in order to time his attempt. If things went the way he wanted, he could free himself and get to his dagger in order to force his release. Jarlaxle, as far as Entreri was concerned, could find his own way out. Obviously all the male had to do, the assassin determined, was agree to go after Casteja was finished. Unless the drow female was using some sort of magical protection to ward against an unwanted half-drow child by her human lover.

The thought only drew Entreri back to the deeper issue. It seemed that Jarlaxle didn't feel the slightest bit of loyalty to Soraze. He looked the transfigured male over, he'd defended him against his mother, but there was no other interest in the soldier at all. He wondered how easy it would be for Jarlaxle to kill Soraze. Perhaps he could even torture Soraze, for Jarlaxle was not a stranger to delivering torment as a deterrent. The tightly compressed feeling within the man strained against his rigid control.

Annoyed with his thoughts and useless emotions, he looked hard at the scene before him. In the span of fifteen minutes or more, the two had finally gotten to the crux of the action. Ashrei's hands were gripping Casteja's shoulders for leverage, her short nails undoubtedly digging trenches through his skin with every downward push of her sweating body.

Casteja's left arm was useless and unresponsive; he was doing his right-handed best to support the wild general's gyrations. His teeth, meanwhile, were clamped on the tendons between her neck and shoulder; seeking to throat her like a blue-eyed wolf. Had Entreri bothered to analyze the situation for dominance, he would have called it equal but for Casteja's injury. As it was, he was listening to their gasps and watching the ratcheting tension in their muscles for the moment of release.

Five minutes, he decided clinically, turning his head to the side to inspect the leather straps anchoring his fingers backwards. Carefully, he manipulated the small barrel-shaped ornament to the front of his mouth and held it between his teeth. The necessary calculations began to formulate in his muscles, when his mind let through another thought.

Which was more repulsive; the violence of sex, the need for dominance or the dependency of the resulting offspring?

The assassin's eyes narrowed to slits against the intruding notion. He banished it from his head and focused on the strap holding back his thumb. It was the logical target as an appendage mostly independent from the rest of his hand. Independence was the single most important thing.

Which implied that dependency was the most repulsive option. Dependency opened one up to death or things worse than death. Ahdania might have had a soft life, but her father had thrown her aside for nothing better than love of the sword that hated and killed him. Jaka was a tool, cultivated by dark elven plans and given false affection to bind him slavishly his Matron mother. Ashrei displayed affection for her offspring, but they were probably no better off than the deranged psionicist. Soraze was one of those tools, unwanted by the male that sired him. Abandoned, abused, betrayed, humiliated… things worse than death. The assassin's jaw clenched painfully hard.

Entreri heard the click, but did not make the connection between himself and the noise until pain shocked him out of his circling thoughts. Suddenly the assassin was spitting tiny curved shards of glass, saliva, acid and a dented silver ornament. He hardly noticed the shuddering spasms of the lovers, so concerned was he with his own lapse in control.


	13. doctrine of descent

You probably know that ff dot net has posted a new commandment: Thou Shalt Not Respond to Reviews In-Chapter. The rule annoys me, but the feature that comes with it does not. Most of my bitching during DTH (other than how long it is taking) has been about how to respond to reviewers. I don't like taking focus off the story by responding in-chapter. To that end, I will no longer do so because I can now reply to reviews through the review page. But there will be one notable exception: if you do not have an ff dot net account and cannot leave a 'signed' review, I will answer the review in-chapter. I think that's reasonable. Also, you now have the option of sending me a message from the author page rather than going through the trouble of e-mail.

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_"Into the borrowed course  
Under the dreadful birds  
Under the singing soil  
And all those guilty clouds.  
I have seen too much  
Wipe away my eyes"  
_-Bauhaus, _The Man with X-ray Eyes_

_doctrine of descent_

The sound of metal and jewels clicking and ringing together was reminiscent of Jarlaxle's annoying magical trinkets, but the necklace was Entreri's. Kiretheo held it by the unclasped ends and pulled tight until the chain was taut between his hands. He shook his small hands back and forth to jostle the ornaments and create the ringing, while staring up and over the bowed line with brightly intelligent eyes.

Entreri ignored the boy's taunting, the pain from his wound, and the distant clamor of old thoughts he could not fathom. He focused his attention on the boy's older brother, Soraze, and studied him in the flickering light that flooded in from beyond the open cell door. The male's face held the other level of familiarity he had sensed; even in his human form he had features reminiscent of Jarlaxle's. It had never simply been that he was drow, but that he physically looked like his sire.

It seemed the whole of Ashrei's brood were mainly changed in complexion, eye color, and the softening of their sharp elven features. A glance at Ashrei, as she plucked the necklace out of Kiretheo's hands, suggested they had also augmented their height.

Across the room, bored Soraze was finished with Casteja's bonds and leading the man from the cell. If he noticed Entreri studying him, he gave no indication. It occurred to Entreri that the blasé male wouldn't show a hint of surprise if Lolth appeared before him and offered him three wishes. In his opinion, it was a generational improvement.

Casteja did not seem the least bit concerned about heading off for a generous round of torture with the Shining Lord of Arrabar and his drow lackeys. He wore an expression of fierce amusement. This was the man's battlefield face and it came with a commanding presence of unequaled determination. It made the area all around the man alive with combative tension. Jarlaxle mused that when provoked, Casteja took the battlefield where ever he roamed. Perhaps it was a trait he inherited from his wild-hearted mother.

Right behind Soraze and Casteja, Ashrei was propelling a playfully resistant Kiretheo along, her hand splayed wide between his slender shoulders. With Entreri's dagger on her left hip and now a coiled bull whip on the right, Entreri found it odd she did not threaten the child with one or the other. Then he recalled Jarlaxle words about drow females who gave their offspring false affection in order to inspire fanatical loyalty.

He didn't really care what kind of mother Ashrei was. No, Artemis Entreri was under enough psychological pressure that he found he was ready to kill for the simple sick release of ending a life. Initially he thought he would start with Ashrei, but then he recalled the male bolted to the wall beside him. He wouldn't have his dagger, but there would be plenty of opportunities to heal his mouth and jaw after he plunged his thumbs through Jarlaxle's uncovered eyes.

With the boy out the door, Ashrei returned to her prisoners. She looked at Entreri with deceptively green eyes and shook the necklace in parody of her youngest child. "One should be careful with their toys lest they backfire."

Entreri did nothing but stare back with baleful intensity, backed by compounded anger. Ashrei was impressed with his hard glare; it had a burning concentration of hatred that would have cowed the vast majority of soldiers she had commanded in a thousand campaigns. It did not dent her personal armor of absolute, somewhat arrogant, confidence, but it did raise her level of caution to a degree she usually reserved for dangerous _unchained_ opponents.

She did not know who Artemis Entreri was or what he could do; his mere presence with a solitary Jarlaxle suggested great value. Soraze's observations marked him as a highly able thief. His dominating cursed sword made it clear he was a strong-willed fighter, but there was little evidence the man had intelligence or loyalty. In fact, if he had fought against Casteja and Vritra, there was a strong likelihood he was no longer in possession of a healthy mind.

He was a fully matured human, rather handsome with his high cheekbones and naturally dark skin, but not what she imagined as Jarlaxle's type. That only left only one possibility. The human was a useful sacrificial lamb; a tail for the lizard to drop when it needed to distract a pursuer. Every male for himself and all that.

Not above a little sadism, Ashrei dropped the necklace to her belt and brushed her callused fingers across Entreri's bloody chin. The corrosive element within his necklace had released the bonds that held flesh together; part of his lower lip was gone and a notch was growing in a V toward his chin. A hint of pink tooth showed and a bit of blue-white bone beneath that.

"I hope neither you nor Jarlaxle put much stock in your looks," she smiled, curling and uncurling her blood-tipped fingers before his unflinching gaze. To Jarlaxle she commented, "I have to meet up with 'Steja and Eles. Think things over while I'm gone. I'm sure you'll see the arrangement I have in mind is mutually beneficial."

"When have I ever let opportunity pass me by?" The male smirked, eyes deliberately sweeping over her undeniably pleasing body.

She wiped the blood off her fingers onto Entreri's thigh and stepped before Jarlaxle. "I don't trust you at all. But assuming you agree, let's hope your potency has improved over the last fifty years. It took you seven months last time and there's never been anything wrong with my fertility."

"If you had not always laid there like one dead," Jarlaxle replied dryly, "it probably would not have taken so long."

A grin and a wave of her hand brushed the complaint away. "Considering the amount you charged for your stud services, I was entitled to do nothing while you screwed me silly. Except the only silliness that entered my mind was that I was actually paying you."

"I didn't screw you silly?" Jarlaxle's tone was teasing, but laced with a small amount of sarcasm he knew Ashrei would detect.

"Financially, yes," she retorted, laughing and not offended by his sarcasm. "I paid you to have fun! Where's the sense in that? Of course I made you do all the work; I wanted my money's worth. And I still didn't get what I paid for."

"If you paid me for pleasure," Jarlaxle smiled sweetly, "I'd be a prostitute. I assure you, Lady-General Ashrei, Jarlaxle may be many things, but he is no whore."

The disguised dark elf female rolled her eyes, but did not lose her pleasant attitude, which Jarlaxle attributed to her recent workout. "Let's not quibble over details. I'm going to be late to join them at this rate. Just tell me one thing before I go."

The male raised an inquiring white eyebrow in an exaggerated expression of curiosity, but made no verbal reply. Whatever question she had in mind, he was certain it would provide him insight into her motivations.

Her face became a mask of smiling curiosity. "Why didn't you cut off 'Steja's arm and leave with the spoils?"

"Is that how you get the sword?" Jarlaxle asked, though he had guessed that much and more. Ashrei knew he was feigning ignorance: the real question was why she wanted to know?

According to the wanted notice, Casteja was wanted with or without the sword. It could only mean she wasn't opposed to her lover losing his arm and the sword. Did she think he would reveal his plans to her more easily if someone else cut off his arm? Would it be easier for her to cut down somebody else with the sword? Did the infamous Fickle General have a weakness for her human lover? Or was it a matter of leveling the odds on their bet?

"Answer."

"Perhaps I have not yet given up on the blade," he answered, winking slyly. "I choose my moments carefully. Or perhaps I want him when you're done with him. His tactical skills are a greater boon than the weapon he hosts."

The answer satisfied the general, for she drew back with a snort and toss of her slightly disheveled hair. "You haven't changed a bit. I should be back in a few hours. If you agree to my terms, you will be released and I will provide your human a healing potion."

"General Ashrei," Jarlaxle called out as she went to the door, "always so generous."

The female did not rise to the bait, knowing the value in ignoring the male's sly tongue. The door was shut behind her and relocked, sending blackness back to reclaim her prisoners. The drow took a few moments to consider the situation but almost immediately turned to Entreri to survey the man's injury. He could see very little, for the assassin was facing forward and Jarlaxle was directly to his right. There was heat radiating from Entreri's mouth and nose as he breathed, more escaping his mouth than was normal.

"Can you speak?" Jarlaxle asked, his tone unintentionally quiet. "How bad will the injury become?"

The assassin said nothing, ignoring Jarlaxle in favor of concentrating on reining in his rage. Even while training hard and endlessly to be an emotionless fighter, he'd never been able to completely suppress anger. That anger had been his undoing when he fought with Drizzt Do'Urden and it had been his undoing moments prior.

Try as he might, rage was a part of him that he could not excise. It had been less powerful since his fateful return to, and subsequent flight from, Calimport. Faintly, he attributed the phenomena to a new outlook on life: Jarlaxle was a large part of working that enigma out. The puzzle tangled itself up since he realized his partner was only using him like one of his many magic items. That was enough to bring the anger back to old levels, but something Vritra had touched on in his mind made things worse.

He recalled again Kimmuriel's words on what the creature had done to Jaka. _The creature tunneled through his mind and memories. It drained all his reserves as it went back, exploiting memories and gathering clues to ultimately break the boy's mind._ The weakness the creature had intended to exploit was something Entreri believed he'd turned into strength; an all consuming wall of red anger that had long been his citadel against all contenders.

"Artemis," the dark elf sighed, uncomfortable with his bizarrely human emotion, "is there a plan behind your injury? I can't imagine you as a masochist, not when nihilism better suits you."

A line of cooling blood drops fell across the assassin's chest to his shoulder as he turned his head toward Jarlaxle. Dispassionate eyes stared almost blankly at the dark elf, but Entreri said nothing.

Jarlaxle didn't like the non-expression or the sight of the injury reaching down the assassin's chin. He expected Entreri to have some indication of pain in his eyes, for acid's ravaging demolition was akin to being consumed with fire, but there was nothing but desolate gray. In conjunction with his earlier epiphany, the dark elf made another leap of understanding. "You are disturbed because you lost control."

"You have heard me say that I am only ever betrayed once," the assassin replied quietly, surprisingly without lisp. He ignored Jarlaxle's accurate statement altogether; he was an old hand at ignoring those things that validated his weakness. "I don't intend to make myself a liar."

"I understand," Jarlaxle returned slowly, his mind fast at work on the unwanted situation. As much as his pride detested what felt like a covert request for forgiveness, the wily drow was greedy enough not to let the self-defeating emotion get the better of him. "Allow me to prove there was never any betrayal intended by doing something I heretofore have not done. I intend to tell you everything I know concerning our current opponents."

The cold gray eyes did not cease looking through the dark elf, but Jarlaxle read interest in a minute blink of the frigid stare. He made a mental note not to forget to reintroduce the issue of lost control. He knew Entreri would continue to deflect, whether he hated him or not. He was curious to know what hidden rage the assassin had built his life upon, but it was more productive… more helpful, perhaps, to persuade the man to solve the issue. It was clear to Jarlaxle that the mysterious flaw at the heart of the man took the fine edge off his perfection.

"She prefers daggers, but is highly proficient with a whip," the male began, momentarily closing the doors in his mind on his mysterious partner's ailment. "You already know what the dagger can do. The whip is a mystery. The sticks in her hair are actually wands "One dispels magic and I believe the other performs transfigurations, which explains all that pale skin. Her shirt is enchanted to repel weapons of mundane and magical means.

"Her brood numbers at least six, but she may have other unrelated minions with her. Soraze is obviously a warrior and Kiretheo appears to be a budding wizard of the very lowest level. You should know that her eldest is a mage of princely proportions; I'm certain he has been scrying us."

"Somebody has," Entreri stated unequivocally. The dark elf took the response as heartening. Continued silence would mark the assassin's sentiments as hopelessly irretrievable.

Jarlaxle nodded; he had not forgotten Entreri's uncanny ability to tell when eyes were on him. "He or the wizard from Thay. Perhaps both. Her third boy is a gifted fighter; he was one of the ones standing guard at her room. The other boy was her fourth; I have reports that he is a bard, but I doubt that is his only discipline. Perhaps the most important of the lot is Inyol, her secondboy. The two eldest serve as her advisors, but Inyol is by far the most driven. He's nowhere as strong a mage as his elder brother, but he's on par with her fighter thirdboy, and an accomplished thief to boot."

"Master of combining all three disciplines, I take it." Entreri's gaze was still distant, but had grown more conversant. "Why haven't we seen him yet?"

"In the past, Ashrei has allowed Inyol a long leash. She trusts him to act in her best interests and has wisely allowed him opportunities to organize networks that are somewhat independent of her oversight. I would like you to have the glove back before we meet him," Jarlaxle admittedly glibly. "Like the rest of Ashrei's brood, he's unswerving in his loyalty. Unlike the rest of her brood, he is capable of independent thought."  
"You once considered recruiting him," Entreri commented without interest, "or you wouldn't have so much to say."

"His older brother, too," the male laughed in the darkness. "I consider recruiting any male of worth." His voice lost its flippant nature and took a hint of soberness as he continued. "And very rarely, I grow fond of the exceptional ones. I suppose that would be a vice in drow society; a dangerous luxury."

Entreri seemed to take no notice of Jarlaxle's sudden double-speak, but the mercenary was certain the man understood what he was really saying. It was up to guesswork whether the assassin would be moved by the underlying sentiment or not.

"All the information you're giving me is useless if I can't get my hands free," Entreri finally admitted, his eyes focusing on Jarlaxle as if the male had suddenly materialized out of the darkness. "If you want to be of any use, you'll lay the bitch, collect our payment, and get us out of here."

"Did you say 'us,' my friend?" The wily mercenary knew he was pushing his luck, but wanted some indication, negative or not, that things were not completely irreparable between them.

Anger was draining out of the assassin, leaving him in a sort of emotionless coma. The assassin heard the note of contrition in the drow's speech but felt no responsibility to answer it. He faced forward once again. "The possibility that I will use that word in the future is bleak."

"I see you're not one to instill false hopes," Jarlaxle returned sarcastically.

"All hope is false," Entreri returned, causing the dark elf's brow to rise in interest. "A suicidal delusion."

"I've never heard a human speak ill of hope," Jarlaxle mused, "but coming from you, I shouldn't be surprised. I've always considered hope the refuge of a positive attitude when things are out of my hands. As such, I don't commonly feel it, for things are rarely out of my control. I hope if for no other reason than it is currently keeping my attitude positive."

Entreri turned his head just enough to squint through the blackness at the bizarre dark elf beside him. "You're saying that you have lost control of the situation?"

"Of the situation with Ashrei?" Jarlaxle smirked. "No, not at all. I can still get everything from her you and I want. The situation I speak of has always been something of a matter of hope. For as much as I thought I was the master of it, I understand it works better when I do not try to manipulate it. It works best as a joint venture."

It was as much of an apology and a promise for better behavior Entreri could get from the mouth and, indeed, the heart of Jarlaxle. It came to him through a haze of utter unemotional stillness. He was not entirely equipped to consciously respond or assimilate the information, though the gesture did sink in beyond the reflexive layers of suspicion and paranoia.

A memory from hours earlier surfaced in response, though he did not initially accept the significance. The image of Jarlaxle holding the emerald dagger, blade positioned for the easy trip to his black heart did not swiftly leave his mind. It had nothing at all to do with hope or forgiveness, but of making a deadly point.

Jarlaxle did not give up, but prepared himself for the loss of something of great value through poorly planned gambling. His possibly ex-partner made no noise for hours after the conversation; it gave the drow all the time he needed to reflect and plan ahead. Jarlaxle's calculated all the possibilities, contriving endless contingency plans, and scoured Entreri's emotionless face for any and all clues concerning his disposition. At least the acid ceased to unravel the assassin's skin and the resulting wound was scabbing over.

The only sign of life came the moment Entreri's head drooped toward his chest. The dark elf felt the corner of his mouth tug at the sight of the resolved assassin drifting toward sleep. They had been awake for the better part of a full day; it was inevitable that sleep would claim the man, as exhausted as he was in body and mind. Jarlaxle took it for a good thing and considered trying to attain reverie while bolted to the cold stones.

All thoughts of rest fled his mind the moment he felt a profound stillness settle over the cell. It had been still for hours, but this was a lack of movement that went beyond the physical realm; it seeped into his very consciousness. It was not from within, but enforced from without. Along with stillness came a sense of impending weight; it began to press in like a subterranean vapor. With the weight came the increasingly cold awareness that he was being watched. He glanced to his side again and saw Entreri's head slump forward, his painful injury thudding against his chest with the weight of his head. The sight was not comforting.

It continued to be eerily still and quiet.

Vaguely, Jarlaxle heard a drop of water hit the floor.

For a prolonged period of time the feeling of being observed lay over the dark elf like a heavy cloak. Then that cloak soaked into his skin. He did not feel as if his mind or any of his defenses were stripped bare; he felt as if those careful mechanisms were utterly transparent. He had an impression of being surrounded by windows with nothing to hide and nothing of interest to display. An army of his darkest secrets was observed and found of no worth. It was a bizarre blow to his ego, but not one to which he could react.

Jarlaxle did not know how long the feeling lasted, but he came aware he had lost track of time the moment he heard a subtle gasp for air. Startled, he shot a look at Entreri to see why the assassin would make such a noise. He found Entreri slumped forward, unmoving. Jarlaxle was forced to conclude the gasp had ripped from his own black-skinned throat.

---

_The weight encapsulating him was both foreign and comfortably familiar. He felt his arms sucked out wide from his body by wet warmth, his legs imbedded in liquid flesh, his head was at home on his bare chest; warm and slick. Something trailed slowly across his body; it had the same texture as the skin on the inside of his cheek. _

_His lips moved, but the voice merely rippled across smooth surfaces, vibrating delicate membranes. "Am I within my mother's womb and my dreams a fantasy of the life I have yet to live?"_

_Warm appendages reminiscent of intestines, fluttered over his face, coated his skin in mucus and gently pulled strands of his long dark hair up in a calming caress. He had no desire to open his eyes; he knew what he would see, but ceased to feel the horror._

_Quite suddenly, the heated weight constricted and he felt the sensation of movement. He was swallowed into the warm pressure of slick meat. He was not worried; he did not need to breathe. He did not know where he was going, but he did not feel a sense of urgency._

---

On the heels of Jarlaxle's discovery and subsequent uneasiness, he saw Entreri suddenly come alive in his bindings. A convulsion rippled up his body in one long wave, ending with his head jerking back and hitting the stone wall. An eruption of saliva and blood from his injury sprayed out of his mouth. There was no warning when his bonds broke open and clattered against the wall and floor; a moment later the assassin was falling forward.

Reflexively, Jarlaxle attempted to shoot forward to discover the source of the assassin's attack and subsequent release. His chains made a resounding crash throughout the cell as he jerked hard against them, gaining several bruises and wrenching his wrists and fingers in the process.

The echoes from his chains had not left the room before another sound crashed through the stillness: the sound of armored bodies hitting and jarring the iron-banded cell door. Jarlaxle knew the door would open before it would shatter and he knew what he would see when it did. On the floor, Entreri picked himself up and shook his head violently as if to dislodge a distasteful notion.

"Artemis," Jarlaxle called, giving the assassin something to focus on. His effort was validated by the sight of wild-eyed confusion narrowing into calculating suspicion. Entreri looked at the bound dark elf, took in the sight of the bindings that gripped him, and snapped back to the door.

The barrier did not unlock and swing outward on conventional hinges; rather, it jumped forward propelled past the stone portal with freakish strength. The sound of anything impacting the door was curiously absent. Splintered wood and iron-hinges ricocheted against the floor and ceiling through a cloud of powdered rock debris. The door fell flat on the floor with a resounding clatter of iron and Chondalwood oak.

Framed in the outer hall's torch light, Casteja Vektch looked both imposing and slightly mad. His head was held back ominously so that he looked over his cheekbones into the room. His bright blue eyes gleamed in the orange firelight as if seeing the world through the fringes of burning hell.

"We had a deal, did we not?" He asked in a voice that was no more than a growling nod to human speech.

A wry part of Jarlaxle's mind answered that the deal had never been formalized, but he was more than happy to benefit from it. Who was he to argue with a mad vision of salvation? A quick look, however, did not reveal the psionic sword. Not until he focused on Casteja's left arm.

Hot shreds of ripped muscle and sinew were hanging from the torn skin of the man's left shoulder, dripping hot blood and gore. The messy shreds swung limply halfway down his bicep. It was impossible to have so much muscle torn from ligaments and bone and still be able to use the arm. Casteja, grimacing through mind-altering pain, seemed to comand full use of the limb.

When he came closer Jarlaxle could see why. There were corded tendrils, slicked red with blood, emerging from the midst of the man's flesh, running through and anchoring onto cartilage, bone and torn muscle. He recalled seeing the creature's extremities move under Casteja's skin before and suppressed a feeling of revulsion. He wondered why the creature didn't heal its host.

"Rather useful, if bizarre, Captain Vektch," Jarlaxle commented, voice remarkably neutral for the situation. He found the item's attributes of singular interest, but the sight of the creature inhabiting the human's flesh was deeply unsettling to even his jaded sensibilities. Firmly entrenched in the darkened flesh of the man's hand, Vritra's burning orange gaze stared fixedly in whatever direction Casteja's movement brought it.

Neither of the companions needed their enhanced vision to tell the man's face was drawn and pale with angry pain. "Let me assure you, it feels terrible. If I take up the sword, I'll lose use of my arm, so this will have to do until the lot of us can make good our departure."

"Did they remove the glove?" Entreri finally asked, moving to Jarlaxle's side to begin working open the straps and locks. His head felt too heavy and clogged to be normal. He attributed the problem to Vritra's emergence.

"No, they began to cut off my arm in a messy manner. In doing so, they opened one of the trenches Vritra had dug into my flesh. It pulled enough of itself out of the glove to retaliate." The hellfire did not abate from his gaze, but Casteja lowered his head and ducked in his chin. From his belt he tugged forth Entreri's missing sleeve and the blessedly familiar black glove with red stitching. "Your word that you will not use the gauntlet against me."

Entreri did not hesitate. "You have it, now get the damn thing out of my head."

"Vritra is interested in you," Casteja remarked and tossed the gauntlet to Entreri in negligent fashion. It was caught and slipped over the assassin's right hand in the same move. It didn't slow him in his progress with Jarlaxle's bonds. The uncomfortable space in his head the sword occupied was vacated and Entreri felt his speed and agility double toward normalcy. He didn't want to know why the creature had an interest in his mind; he only wanted it gone.

"And Ashrei?" Jarlaxle asked, secretly relieved that Entreri was freeing him. "Did she order your arm removed? Is that the only way to take Vritra?"

"She did not. Death is the only other way to take Vritra from me," Casteja replied absently.

From outside the cell came the distinctly unwelcome sound of rushing footsteps. Entreri's muscles tensed in anticipation of their arrival, but Casteja did not seem concerned by the herald of a score of soldiers. His lack of interest was borne out when the percussive beat of footsteps was transformed into waves of sound describing leather and metal scraping the stone floor. The noise ceased long before any jailer or soldier reached the cell. "I prefer to lose the arm, you understand. For your own good, should I be killed, remember that it would be better to die than to touch the sword."

Entreri was not sure which he liked less, the idea of being attacked by the inhabitants of Arrabar's mighty fortress or siding with a madman. Especially a madman with a hideous ally that possessed such incomprehensible motives and powerful abilities. He certainly felt no safer with the assurance that the creature had an interest in his mind. With another twist of his ingenious fingers, he freed Jarlaxle's neck and dropped into a crouch to free the drow's ankles by touch alone.

"Why would it be so bad to touch the sword?" Jarlaxle asked, always desiring more knowledge in order to stay as far ahead as his opponents as possible. "Is that not how one would possess the sword?"

"No," Entreri spat, before Casteja could answer. His quick response surprised Jarlaxle, who was still trying to rub feeling back into his fingers. "That is how the sword comes to possess i _you_ /i ."

Casteja looked at Entreri speculatively. "You saw something, did you? Did Vritra leave you with something that isn't yours?"

"What is it about Artemis," Jarlaxle interrupted, stepping out of the last of his bonds, "that Vritra would desire?"

Entreri drew himself up, half the answer already drifting into his consciousness. It had been there for over a week, but he had not known it. Vritra had left and revived many things in his mind that he was only beginning to suspect.

"Vritra hates gods," Casteja began as he turned to walk over the fallen door and out the cell, "and Master Entreri not only does not venerate any god, he actively despises the sort that Vritra dislikes."

"The so-called goodly ones," Jarlaxle murmured, watching Entreri's reaction as he followed Casteja out the door. The assassin revealed nothing; his face was a careful business-like mask. For all intents and purposes, he was fully into his role as emotionless killer. "Why does Vritra despise goodly deities?"

Outside the cell Entreri and Jarlaxle found the dungeon's greater chamber littered with motionless bodies. There was very little blood to be found on the soldiers. The hopelessly twisted contortions they had fallen into suggested they had dropped abruptly in the midst of pursuing their quarry.

"They tried to kill it," Casteja said over his bloody shoulder as he stepped over limp, but breathing, bodies on the floor. "Vritra is not evil, just completely foreign. Thousands of years ago, the gods took it on themselves to destroy it because they could not by any stretch of their powerful imaginations comprehend it. Today all the temples and followers dedicated to Vritra are gone and perhaps only an echo of memory remains among those tentacle-faced creatures."

The significance of Casteja's explanation hit Jarlaxle like so much lead. The enormity was astounding. A sudden spark of inspiration lit in his mind, giving new meaning to something Jaka had said back in the swamp, just before they had met Vektch. "Vritra was a psionic god."

"Exactly so," Casteja returned, not looking back. He was moving quickly, but without the smoothness he had exhibited after his ankle was healed. His movements were efficient, but there was a raw-boned jerkiness characterizing his momentum that was previously nonexistent.

"_Was_," Entreri emphasized, his dark eyes hard as chips of flint. The assassin crossed the floor quickly, the dispersion of bodies not slowing him down in the least.

Jarlaxle had little difficulty keeping up and less trouble processing the information as he moved. He was becoming more interested in the sword with each word, but was losing more and more interest in the idea of procuring it. The thought of Ashrei gaining it was even less appetizing. "How did it survive?"

"In a last ditch effort, Vritra forced one of the bystanders to believe they were killing her better half." Casteja replied in the same tone of voice one usually reserved to remark on the weather. "She was sympathetic to Vritra as it was, making her an easy target. She gave up her divinity, her earthly form, and her very existence to save it."

If Vritra was a god, it truly had been long ago for Jarlaxle, despite education and incurable curiosity, had never heard the name. "She was destroyed?"

They were but a few strides from the stairwell that would lead them up to ground level. Inside the vaulted, upward leading passage, their conversation took echoing nuances that folded back in a matter that formed layers of whispering ambience. Casteja's hob-nailed boots clicked against the stones in counter point as they ascended.

"Utterly," Casteja replied. "So completely and irrevocably decimated that all that remained of her was a sucking void.

"One of the first things my father taught me is that there is one standard rule to existence: you cannot destroy matter completely without unraveling all of creation in the process. The exception to this rule seems to lie in divinity. She took the fate meant for Vritra, but Vritra was too weak to escape the vacuum."

Before they reached the top of the stairs, Entreri passed Casteja and halted above him on the landing. Several stairs apart, the assassin had both higher ground and the illusion of height. His face remained masked, but there was a palpable aura of tension surrounding him. The so-called bandit captain was obliged to stop before the dangerous man.

"Likely we will encounter Ashrei and her brood on the way out," Entreri stated flatly. "I will not hold back against them. Anyone who stands in my way will perish, whether they claim to be my friend—" Jarlaxle was not surprised, but almost winced anyway. "—my ally, or the lover or son of my so-called friend or ally. I suggest you put aside your emotional attachments and do the same that we might survive."

Casteja only smiled wanly, his lack of reaction to Entreri's comment about a son revealing that he knew more than he was letting on. "Vritra does not impart everything to me that it learns, nor does Vritra impart everything of me to those minds it invades. But I think it would be beneficial for you to know that attachments are only dangerous to those who cannot face the pain of severing them when they are detrimental. Pain and emotion reminds us that we are alive."

Jarlaxle nodded his agreement and went past Casteja to join Entreri on the landing. "Trust in my opportunist nature." In Calishite he continued: "The only attachments I have to any living creature are only those I cultivate. But as our friend has just said, I can sever them if they become problematic."

It was the only warning the dark elf was committed to giving the assassin. He had felt contrition, he had even resolved to mend his ways, but he was still Jarlaxle and that meant he would cut losses if he had to.

They were not what Entreri considered as his peers, for he believed he had none, but they were allied for the moment at least. He did not react to their responses, but moved onto the landing with them. Instinctually, Entreri whispered past them to take the point position. He knew where they were and he had every intention of leading them up a few levels to the closest window and getting Jarlaxle to levitate down. He had no loyalty to Casteja, even if he didn't like the idea of Ashrei getting her hands on Vritra. Whether that was her intention or not.

Acting as scout was soon revealed a nearly pointless occupation. The whole of the mighty stone fortress was populated by disciplined soldiers and the myriad people charged with upkeep of residents and government. However, they had yet to come across a single soul that Vritra would not drop. A growing trail of listless bodies was threading through the crowning glory of Arrabar as the three made their way to the outer layers of the monolithic castle.

The situation baffled Jarlaxle, and he couldn't help but ask how Vritra suppressed people so fast compared to Jaka and Entreri. The answer was logical, but chilling. Vritra had sought to destroy the other two; the people inside the fortress were only receiving mental disruptions that could last up to half an hour.

Jarlaxle resolved to recover his eye patch as soon as possible. He was almost gratified when the opportunity seemed to present itself from a side corridor.

"Sorry boys, but where do you think you're going?"

As one, the three escapees turned to observe the beautiful and deadly General Ashrei sauntering, hips swaying seductively, toward them. In one hand she held her bull whip and on her opposite hip was Entreri's long dagger. Three of her sons came up from behind to flank her; her third, fourth, and Soraze.

Jarlaxle threw her a wink at the same time Casteja grinned roguishly, but it was Entreri who spoke up first. "We're just stretching our legs."

"And what fine legs they all are!" Her laugh was easy enough, but Entreri noted that her voice was a bit tight. No doubt the other two heard it as well. "I'll make a deal with you, Jarlaxle, on account of your connections and my personal fancy. I'll let the two of you escape, if you leave 'Steja. Though I'd love to have you all stay for a few rounds of armed diplomacy."

"Would the winners of that encounter walk away free?" Jarlaxle asked, the hopeful note in his tone almost too much for mercurial Ashrei's sense of humor even though they all knew the mercenary was faking.

"Mmm," Ashrei laughed. "Yes, but I doubt any of you would be able to walk far. I've a gift for endurance you boys would be hard pressed to match. I'm sure you'd all be worthless before I broke a sweat and I can't have Casteja so depleted. He's not a passive lover."

"There's a bit of a problem," Casteja remarked, the hard-edged amusement in his voice outweighing the pain. "I haven't the indecency to have sex with a woman that has betrayed me by taking a hand against my body in torture."

"That's why we had sex _before_ I helped torture you," she laughed. Opening her fingers, she released the coils of her whip, freeing it to slither to the ready.

Not one to wait for his adversaries when it was not to his advantage, Entreri moved fast. Ever was he one to use shadows and deception, but this was a drow and such creatures were one part flesh and blood to two parts deception. A sudden frontal attack made the most sense. In half a blink he had surged forward and her closest son, Soraze, was reeling toward Casteja from a powerful backhanded strike that only helped propel the killer forward to Ashrei.

The transfigured dark elf's eyes were wide with shock; she had never seen a human move with such speed or monstrous accuracy. The compact human swarmed over her faster than she could imagine, his left hand found the emerald marked hilt of the dagger on her hip and the right was challenging hers for the bullwhip.

She was too slow, anyone would be too slow, to take the dagger from him, but she managed to tighten her grip before he could wrench it away. It was a simple thing for her to hiss the weapon's command word in order to keep it. "Chakti!"

A familiar racking pain ripped up Entreri's arm from the hand grasping the female's whip. It was a damning pain straight from Menzoberranzan; the evil bite copied from a priestess' whip of fangs. There was little one could do against a weapon revered as Lolth's symbol of favor among her clergy.

At first, Entreri fell away as the waves of numbing pain rippled along his muscles. Then he recalled Ashrei's unkind words concerning the chaotic Spider Queen and he surged forward again, ready to cut the weapon from her white knuckled fingers. Ashrei definitely was not in Lolth's favor and the weapon's bite was not in the form of a snake's vicious fangs.

Jarlaxle watched in glee, seeing his friend in deadly action was always a pleasure for the senses. He could afford to observe: both the third and fourthboy had fallen to the floor. Their fall was preceded directly by the shattering of two matched rings on each of their hands. Vritra held the boys, but for Soraze; he had no ring, but probably carried some other more useful ward against psionic powers on his person.

He leapt away from Casteja, determined to slip free, no doubt, and alert the dangerous first and secondboy. The poor lad didn't know he was in over his head. Soraze went for his sword, completely forgetting that Casteja would not waste time picking up a weapon when he relied almost exclusively on his fists.

He was swift to draw the weapon, but in the same amount of time Casteja cocked his fist and unleashed a cataclysmic uppercut. His knuckles homed in directly under Soraze's delicate chin, cracking his teeth together with over a hundred pounds of force per square inch. The punishing blow whipped the boy's head back in an arc that took him off his feet and into the wall. The back of his head hit the stone for a second brutal blow still powered by the initial strike's force.

Soraze's eyes rolled up, his knees went weak, and his fine warrior's frame slid bonelessly down the wall to the cold hard floor. Casteja looked down at the lad and sighed. "My apologies, Captain Sora, to you, if not your mother."

Only partially aware of the action around them, Entreri and Ashrei went round and round. Her whip described sinuous circles in the air all around them. Entreri's face was bleeding again from a thin line the whip had drawn on his cheek in one of many blinding attacks. The weapon was ineffectual against the assassin's shirt, but he was less worried about minor wounds than what he assumed would happen if she got the leather coils twined around his neck. He was convinced a concentrated charge from the entire thing could burn his face off as easily as Charon's Claw might.

But that wasn't what he had in mind. He had every intention of creating a mistake for Ashrei and letting her take it as her own. It was a tricky thing, something he had considered over a long period of time but had not resolved to try. There had never been an opportunity of sufficient importance or worthy stakes.

The female was excellent with her whip, often winding the length in spirals designed to capture a limb or trip a foot. She was fast, accurate, and deadly even without the electric charges to augment her attacks. Entreri appreciated her skill and the intelligence of her attacks; she knew how to plan, how to create a chain of attacks, and how to lead an opponent astray. She also knew when to take advantage of a miscalculation.

Ashrei looked into Entreri's eyes and read preoccupation. He was a difficult adversary; one that could kill her if she was not a bit more than perfect. She counted it a good thing he'd gone after Casteja earlier in the week and caught the better part of one of Vritra's attacks. It continued to affect him or she would already be dead. There was no doubt in her mind that Jarlaxle's design for Entreri was that of highly efficient bodyguard.

She wove her whip in continuous motion like a dancer with a fluid silk scarf. Most of the time, her whip licked at Entreri's defensive and offensive blade work. If it made it beyond his continuous shell of blinding emerald and silver, it was only because it brought her in range for another attack. The slight distraction she read in his eyes contained the opening she was confident she could only open once. Once was more than enough.

When he was satisfied he had her methods and strategies plotted, he delivered his attack with brutal intensity. He danced right into the tight circles and figures her bullwhip described. He ducked through one loop, underneath a jerking spiral, but inevitably took the base, near the handle, into a blocking forearm. Snarling, Ashrei barked a different command word. If he was looking to anticipate a shock for his efforts in order to speed his dagger for her heart, he was in for a surprise.

"Jeirt!"

The whip did not release an electrical attack, but animated independently of Ashrei's physical direction. Already within its reach, it constricted, gripping the assassin hard and rocking him toward her. This was not a problem for Entreri; he wanted as close to her as possible. He let her believe he was off balance and swung his dagger across, through the coiling loops of leather.

She had anticipated the dagger and smirked as it came in a curling over-handed sweep of impending death. "Chakti!"

In the jolting throes of electrocution from a whip that eagerly embraced his entire body, Entreri could not defend himself as an experienced hand came to meet his. He felt her slender fingers wrap around his hand as he was wracked with jarring waves of electricity. The shocks kept his hand tight on the dagger's hilt, but she did not seek to take it from him. She kept his arm going, worked with the arc of his predicted course.

The dagger came in at her stomach as intended, but she curved around it. Using his momentum against him, she allowed his swing to play itself out; moving along across her body and back toward his.

It happened fast, too fast for Jarlaxle to stop. He knew the assassin was being electrocuted, but trusted Entreri had planned for such an attack and would turn it to his advantage by gripping the whip with his red-stitched gauntlet. He was not prepared to see the man's dagger forced to complete the perfect arc, narrowly missing Ashrei's stomach. It kept moving under her guidance to ultimately terminate hilt deep between Entreri's ribs. The assassin's face contorted in rage and abject denial as he fell, still holding the dagger and wracked continuously by the electric charges the whip fed him.

"_Nau!_" It was only because Jarlaxle recognized Ashrei as drow that his denial of the situation cracked through the air in the tongue of his birth. Ashrei grinned ferally at the writhing assassin's throes and raised her citrine eyes to Jarlaxle.

"Come now," she said in Drow, "as they say; he was only human." She stepped squarely on the assassin's heaving chest and pushed down. Eyes shut tight against death and gasping dark bubbles of crimson fluid, the assassin's response was only strangled, wet coughing. Blood seeped out from underneath the dagger's crosspiece, making it abundantly obvious that the emerald dagger was no fake and that Mi'iduor fabric did not defend against all enchanted weapons.


	14. what comes around

A/N: In case you missed the news on my profile/update page, this is the Last Chapter (and the official longest). There will be a fairly brief epilogue and then I'll post the scenes I cut from the story (for whatever reason). I forgot to mention last chapter that there's new fan art by Karei linked at my profile/update page. This chapter's working title: 'non-stop violence'.

* * *

"_What you touch you don't feel  
__Do not know what you steal  
__Destroy everything you touch today  
__Please destroy me this way"  
_-Ladytron, _Destroy Everything You Touch_

_what comes around, goes around_

It never really struck Jarlaxle as odd that warm, wet, blood was not half as visible on his skin in the realm of light as it was in heat-sensing vision. From a distance, one might mistake the moisture-slick skin as wet with water, but up close, wiping the crimson fluid from Entreri's face, he was intrigued by the dark blood on his black skin. Only his gray fingernails clearly showed the deep red. The color did not fade, for there was always more.

Behind him, Ashrei was attempting civility to convince Casteja to release her sons from Vritra's hold. She knew Jarlaxle could, at most, only arm himself with Entreri's dagger, but the mortally wounded man held it between his ribs with a death grip.

The assassin's eyes were clenched tight and his teeth ground together audibly. It would not be long, Jarlaxle knew, before Entreri's heart faltered and his fine muscles would go slack. The assassin lingered in the most difficult stage of his mortal wound anyway; a testament to his iron will and pig-headed stubbornness. Nothing was easy with the assassin.

Jarlaxle was more sentimental than most drow, but it was difficult for him to reveal any sort of true emotion. Sentimental, but with a deeply superficial skin, it bothered the male to feel sadness at the passing of an ally that he considered a friend. It reminded him too much of when Zaknafein had met his gruesome demise.

He wiped a fresh spill of coughed blood from Entreri's face, not bothering to avoid the cut on the man's lip, which looked much less gruesome for some reason. "Stupid man," he sighed in Calishite, "now I've no reason to stay on the surface. Your timing is awful."

The only reaction the assassin gave him was a brutal show of pink-stained teeth. Was it a smile? The dark elf snorted soft laughter at the macabre display. "You'll start your lip bleeding again."

If Entreri enjoyed the humor, he gave no indication. Instead, he seized Jarlaxle's wrist in one bloody hand. The move came suddenly and with such force that the dark elf jumped slightly. Jarlaxle's skin dimpled and bruised under the hard grip, but he did nothing to break the man's hold. He was disturbed to find Entreri's prized black glove between his shaking hand and the dark elf's black wrist.

Strangely, underneath the glove he found something jabbing into his skin; something he immediately recognized. Crimson eyes widened in wonderment, but narrowed again as the mercenary looked over his shoulder at Ashrei. She was still talking to a fierce-looking Casteja. She kept Jarlaxle in her line of sight, when stray strands of hair were not falling over one side of her face. He found he no longer had a taste for his original plan.

When he looked back down at Entreri's face the man's gray eyes were squinted open, displaying an uncomfortable amount of anguish. The look was one he'd only seen in the worst situations in Menzoberranzan. "Get the hells away from here…!" The assassin hissed with furious venom, modified by a hollow despair familiar to most of Entreri's victims.

"I will not soon forget Artemis Entreri," Jarlaxle promised solemnly. Entreri responded by slamming his eyes shut against the pain and directing a final obscene gesture at the drow mercenary. Who could expect any less from a dying Artemis Entreri?

Smiling at the man's defiance in the face of an agonized death, Jarlaxle backed away and smoothly tucked the wand Entreri had passed to him up a black sleeve. He had no idea which wand it was, but was quite sure either one would do. The most important thing was to get Ashrei away from Entreri in case the man was aiming to crawl away to die alone.

Mind awhirl, Jarlaxle moved back to Casteja, cursing his lack of foresight. Why hadn't he thought to pick up a weapon when they were fleeing the dungeon level? He headed for one of Ashrei's boys, fully intending to add another weapon to his growing arsenal. Wands were nice, but a male couldn't be too prepared. As he neared one of Ashrei's fallen sons the female brandished her whip. The leather cord cracked the air near his head.

"Stay away from my boys," she smirked, but Jarlaxle noted the hardness manifested in her eyes. He had always wondered if Ashrei was the type to value her children for their utility or exceedingly rare maternal instinct. In the past he had marked her as the rare breed, but he was still not ready to bet on the question.

"I would not dream of incurring your wrath by harming one of your boys," Jarlaxle stated coldly, slipping the magic-negating glove over his slender fingers. It was still warm. "But then you dealt my ally a mortal wound. From now on, ever will Ashrei find herself at odds with Bregan D'aerthe."

The female's green eyes narrowed dangerously. "Don't threaten me, male. Not over the life of a mere human boy."

"He was of great value," the mercenary returned, walking forward with all the menace his lineage, dark elf and Baenre alike, bestowed upon him. Ashrei had been born to a noble house in Ched Nasad and recognized the profound authority in the male's demeanor. She did not want to make an enemy of Bregan D'aerthe. The group was based out of Menzoberranzan and rumored to be intimately tied with that city's ruling house, but the group was far reaching. It was only her sense of status and gender that kept her from backing up a step; that and unwavering self confidence.

"Was he? It is what it is, Jarlaxle," she murmured, tilting her head forward to increase the malevolence of her stare. "If you had waited in the cell, it would never have come to this. Can you honestly expect me to believe your boy wasn't going to kill me? These are the consequences of your decision."

The mercenary noted the slow rise of her whip hand, the angle of her wrist as it slowly came into the proper alignment for an attack. He was perfectly familiar with the use of the weapon, something she had to know. "I'm the type to renegotiate whenever it benefits me."

"You need better advisors," she growled, taking a step forward to meet his clipped gait. He was just inside her whip's range and did not pause. When he did not reply, she snapped her wrist in expert form, sending the blinding whip's attack to tear superficially at the male's flesh. She had no desire to kill him; the last thing she wanted was formidable Bregan D'aerthe out for her blood.

The male accurately gauged the attack and the thoughts that would guide her. He respected Ashrei, would not want to be on the opposite lines in a war against her, but he was no longer interested in what fun playing by her rules might bring. Especially with Entreri soon dead on the cold stones behind them.

He evaded the attack by jerking his shoulders sideways so he presented a smaller target and swung out his ungloved hand toward her. She scoffed in irritation at the hand pointed at her until the slender wand became apparent, its brightly colored red tassel swinging happily about Jarlaxle's wrist.

Derision frozen on her face, Ashrei thought fast and moved faster. She pumped her wrist in rapid successions, trying to get an attack to lash the treacherous male's hand. At the same time, her free hand shot to the back of her head and the wand that was still there. An obscenity formed at her lips when she understood which one he had. He could speak the command faster than she could respond to the attack.

The wand was the one he wanted and it obeyed Jarlaxle's command.

In a desperate attempt to avoid the magical attack, Ashrei dove sidelong. Inevitably, the magic hit her mid-leap and by the time she came out of the roll it had already done its work. Ashrei came to her feet six inches shorter, stumbling slightly as she tried to compensate for the sudden change in her center of gravity. The look in her dark red eyes was not one of rage but pained irritation and disgust.

"By Kiaransalee's dried up tits!" she snorted. "You are one of the most vexing males I have ever dealt with!"

He gave her a jaunty bow, pantomiming a twirl of his missing hat with the wand. By the end of the ornate flourish, the tip was pointing at one of her fallen boys. "I said I wouldn't dream of harming them, didn't I? How many charges have you in your other wand?"

"Plenty," she hissed, baring her teeth, which were bright ivory against the ebony skin of her birth.

"As long as Vritra holds down Israljen, all that matters is that it holds one less than Master Jarlaxle's."

Both drow suddenly turned toward Casteja, who they had nearly forgotten despite his madness and ravaged arm. He was smiling now, a vague expression that did nothing to cover the continued agony of his mutilation.

"And you are the other most vexing male I've ever dealt with." Ashrei sighed at the news of her firstboy's status. She watched Casteja closely as he joined Jarlaxle. Before walking to the unmoving female, the man retrieved Soraze's sword and offered it to Jarlaxle. They all knew she would not run far from Vritra's influence, not while revealed for a dark elf.

The mercenary took the sword's hilt and approached Ashrei beside Casteja. Her mouth was set in a grim line as she watched their approach. When Casteja held out a hand for her whip, she sneered and did not comply with the unspoken command. "I would never have used the hot iron on you, if Wianar hadn't been there."

"Like you never would have given me these," he traced a finger across the four scars on his cheek, "if we hadn't ended up fighting that 'decisive' battle last month? The people of even this city are sick of you and Wianar after fifty or more 'decisive' battles. Surrender here and now and I'll leave; not that my departure from Chondath will change the outcome."

"Those were for the whole Narbeli thing," she snorted. "Did you honestly think I wouldn't mind sharing you with a faerie? Anything else would have been fine, 'Steja. And in the end, she worked against you, didn't she?"

"Biologically and psychologically speaking," the man returned coolly, "there's not much difference between the two of you."

"Give the man the whip," Jarlaxle said, the unlikely tension ramping along his nerves made his patience thin. He brought the tip of his stolen sword to Ashrei's throat in a blinding flash of silver. "I'm tired of this adventure and the conversation."

Knowing Casteja as she did, the general found more to fear in Jarlaxle's cold gaze. Though her pride smarted, Ashrei gave the whip to her lover. Wordlessly, he took it from her and placed the hand backed with Vritra's wickedly gleaming eye on her cheek. For a moment he did nothing but stare into her dark eyes, which were now only slightly beneath his. Then his fingers trailed down her throat to a necklace that rested between her alluring breasts. His touch trailed the necklace, nails scratching lightly over sensitive skin. She hated him for doing things like that; it made her want to throw him down on battlefields and fuck him senseless in front of his soldiers. She always imagined that it would destroy his side's morale.

"Let us end it. Surrender," Casteja murmured, never breaking their quiet test of wills, "or I will take the necklace and then Vritra will devour all your secrets."

She moved to knock his arm away, but found unexpected strength in his maimed arm. For a moment, she continued to push at his arm, but when she felt movement under his skin Ashrei jerked her hand back in disgust. Vritra's tentacles were still moving within Casteja's flesh. It was unnerving, even to her hardened senses.

"The necklace wards off mental intrusion?" Jarlaxle smiled, but his humor was absent; he found he could not take comfort in acquisition. She had to have a powerful ward, for Vritra had not thrown her down as it had her boys. There was also Casteja's previous mention of how she had found him in the first place; on her way to negotiate with illithids. She would have gone to such a meeting with the appropriate protection and likely the necklace was exactly that.

No fool, Ashrei shook her head. "I won't surrender if I'm going to lose my ward anyway."

"Then take us to retrieve my equipment," Jarlaxle demanded, his tone making it clear he didn't consider the words a suggestion. He thought about simply killing the female, but recalled she was more valuable alive. He could not black mail her and sell information on her whereabouts and motivations regardless of said blackmail, if she was dead.

Stubborn determination came back into Casteja's damned blue eyes as Jarlaxle reminded himself of the profit involved in not killing the drow female. "I do hold genuine admiration and respect for you, Master Jarlaxle. I even sympathize with your loss, for Vritra has given me an understanding of the assassin, but my demands will be met before yours. You forget that I'm the one with the leverage."

"He hasn't forgotten," Ashrei ground out, looking the male in his red eyes, eyes that she could not read to save her life. "He just helps himself to whatever he can."

The crafty dark elf nodded once and snapped the sword up in a mock salute. "True enough."

"If you want my surrender," she replied, walking away, "let us quickly go to my rooms and write up the contract."

It was a desperate attempt and it fooled no one. Casteja closed the space between them and again brought his left hand up to Ashrei's fine face. She was even more beautiful in her true form with all the exotic ebony features that came with noble-born and common dark elf alike. His rough fingertips traced her lips slowly and she did not bite them. The moment might have been more seductive if blood was not dripping from his elbow onto her boots.

"I don't care about contracts, Ashrei; I only want to hear surrender from these lips. Then it will be over. Don't make me use force," he murmured, his voice both low and deep. "Your life is a long one, but several thousand short for everything I learned in the untold millennia since I lost the heartland that was dear to me."

"Your heart is too weak to torture me, Casteja Vektch," Ashrei whispered fiercely, as angrily as either Jarlaxle or Casteja had yet seen. Her anger helped her slap the man's hand away and kicked him back in the same move. Even though the rebuff was unexpectedly ferocious, Casteja did not succumb completely to her attack. He channeled the force into a spin and came back ready to seize her.

She took the opportunity to rush down the hall away from him. He was close to her heels, with Jarlaxle behind him when the attack came.

Casteja did not see nor expect the blur of shadow and black steel. Before the shadowed shape ceased its pass, Casteja was falling forward and blood was erupting from his shoulder in a profound wave of hot red. Only Jarlaxle's experienced eyes followed the action that explained why the human's left arm was no longer at Casteja's command, but gravity's to control. The blur had a name and face the mercenary found familiar.

Inyol, wearing a human-looking body and a familiar red eye patch had arrived on the scene. The male cut a grim figure, dressed all in black that only made a mockery of the outlandishly pale skin and warm blond hair his mother's wand or elder brother's magic gave him. He whipped his ebon blade down, flicking a line of red on the stone floor.

"Inyol," Jarlaxle nodded. "I see you've come to return my property."

The serious countenance made room for a brief, faint, smile. "Captain Jarlaxle, sir, you must take that up with my mother."

It was obvious that Vritra had been sustaining Casteja, for without the creature underneath his skin, the man was diminished beyond even what his severed arm could account. He struggled weakly on the floor, slipping miserably in his own blood as he tried to crawl after his twitching arm.

Inyol walked calmly toward the severed arm, though his mother moved toward Casteja. She paused, as did they all, when Vritra's eye began to cloud in its home of human flesh. A film seemed to form over the whole of the topaz eye. Ripples formed across the skin as it sagged toward the floor. As they watched, the thin skin covering the surface of the eye broke open and a copper fluid poured from the surrogate eye socket in Casteja's severed hand and pooled on the floor in a vaguely sword-shaped silhouette.

It took another few moments before the liquid began to solidify again. When the fluid formed the filmy skin, it seemed to deflate. It collapsed like a viscous bubble over the newly revealed shape of the sword. When the sword was at last cold and solid, a bubble formed amid the stylized mass of tentacles that formed the crosspiece and hand guard. The bubble did not pop or shrivel, it split in half revealing the baleful gaze of the large eye.

Jarlaxle was revolted by the sight but was more concerned with what Casteja's loss portended. The stakes had suddenly changed, especially with Inyol so close to the weapon. The thought of Ashrei or one of her sons possessing Vritra sat uncomfortably with the mercenary. His body jumped ahead of his reasoning, though both were in agreement. He darted for Inyol with grace and determination.

The movement immediately caught Inyol's attention. The transfigured drow's uncovered eye widened slightly in dismay at his opponent, but narrowed a moment later with a sketchy pull at one corner of his lips. He barely had time to bring his blade up before the well-known and widely feared mercenary was on him.

Blades crashed together; steel slid against steel and orange sparks scattered down the silver sword's blade. The sparks had nothing to do with steel and everything to do with the magic forged into both blades. Jarlaxle knew the sword he'd lifted from Soraze was a surface blade and hardly something any drow would bother with unless it was enchanted. Inyol's on the other hand was purely of drow make; black as their skin, black as hidden intentions.

He needed no spell to reveal to him the cunning blade's enchantment: the cold emanating from it was proof enough. Inyol's matte black longsword was infused with negative energy. Just a scratch and Jarlaxle could receive a final kiss straight to the Abyss; which worried the surprising male not at all. Firstly, he knew his connection to Bregan D'aerthe kept him safe from most harm, and secondly; the Abyss was anything but unknown to him.

Inyol attacked Jarlaxle with fervor, his goal to push past to Vritra. Jarlaxle could see the difference in their skills immediately, but was impressed nonetheless, for Inyol was not dependent on his right-handed grip on the sword. No, he was just as ambidextrous as Entreri or Drizzt Do'Urden; for he was using his free left hand to cast.

He wondered if it would be possible to recruit the lad if Ashrei were to die of a mysterious illness in the near future. Perhaps fifteen years would be enough time to keep her brood from pointing deadly fingers toward Bregan D'aerthe? All empty planning, he knew, should the male get to the rigid sword gleaming coldly amid the blood and ruins of a man's severed limb.

Economical to the extreme with his right-handed technique, Inyol spared little movement and fewer openings. Jarlaxle's bladework was clearly superior, but the younger male knew he only needed to hold his opponent off until his spell would bloom.

The calculating part of the mercenary's mind was at work even as he to pulled Inyol's controlled right hand out centimeters at a time. It was really nothing more than a ruse; he was counting on the moment between sword stroke and spell.

Blue-green eyes blazing in delight, the younger dark elf came on strong, snarling the vocal components of his spell while he deflected another of Jarlaxle's thrusts. If the young male took enjoyment in the physical release of fighting, it seemed he took equal pleasure in the magic that swelled through him as he neared the completion of his incantation. As much as Jarlaxle liked to see people enjoy their work, he was sure he wouldn't enjoy the outcome of the spell. He knew enough about magic to recognize the spell would have a vicious area effect. Thankfully, he had opted to use the wand rather than Entreri's gauntlet. It was now a matter of timing.

As Inyol threw his spell, the opening appeared just as Jarlaxle expected. He snapped the wand up and directed it to unravel the spell before it could do any damage. Then he fell straight down into a crouch and swept the male's legs out from under him. He felt a sliding connection as the lad was caught mid backpedal, but it was enough to foul his footwork and drop Inyol to the stone floor.

It was the controlled fall of a warrior that knew how to take advantage of a non-lethal mishap. The lad's impact was muffled by the thick material of his clothing. Blond hair whipped around his sharp features as Inyol hit the ground rolling. Jarlaxle was quick to leap from his crouch and over the oncoming drow. For good measure he easily discharged another burst from the wand as Inyol passed beneath him.

Like his mother before him, when Inyol's body resumed his natural shape, it was a much shorter adversary that resulted, even though he remained a bit taller than Jarlaxle. Surprisingly, the male took into account the trouble changing his center of gravity would bring and did not immediately leap to his feet. Instead, he let his sword clatter to the floor and performed an abbreviated spell. A simple cantrip began to pull the sword across the ground.

The moment the lad's hands gestured to Vritra, as if to jerk the sword to him on an invisible line, Jarlaxle used the wand again.

There was no charge left to him.

The sword slid straight to Inyol's grasping hand.

"Don't touch it!" Casteja howled at the dark elf. His right hand was clutching the open wound where his arm used to be, blood pumped hard and fast between his fingers and painted his bare chest and side bright, shiny red. He looked totally unaware of Ashrei, whose hand joined his on the wound. The dripping shreds of his shirt lay near between them as a failed tourniquet with nothing to hold. Inyol had even sheered off the ball joint in his initial attack.

Casteja's command only spurred Inyol on. He grasped the hilt easily and then that of his necromantic blade and sneered ferally at the wrecked man. He stood up, grinning like a demon before he took the first step toward Jarlaxle. "Kneel before my mother, male."

The second step never came. Inyol's striking features contorted first in shock and then in bewilderment. His formerly blue-green eye fixed on the blade and the eye that was flaring to life near his wrapped fingers. A violent shudder starting at the crown of his head ripped down his spine, nearly toppling him again. The male tried to drop the sword, but it stayed rigidly against his palm when his fingers uncurled.

He whipped his arm out as if trying to dislodge his very hand, but the sword did not budge. In fact, it seemed to be sinking into Inyol's black skinned hand. Bewildered, face contorted with the beginnings of fiery agony, he looked to his mother.

Ashrei's red eyes grew very wide, her lips pulled over her teeth in a snarl. Casteja forgotten, she rushed at her secondboy, muscles propelling her unlike before.

The damage was done. Inyol's whole body rippled like heat over desert sand. It lost its depth and then siphoned straight into the sword's twisted hilt. Simultaneously, something brackish and gray was spilling from the eye itself. As it grew, the sword diminished and flowed into the emerging shape that was beginning to take on humanoid dimensions.

It was a blasted and twisted thing, if indeed it was humanoid; with a great bulbous head, thin limbs, and tentacles issuing from what passed for a face. In Inyol's place a curled and grotesque creature slumped to the floor, its once magnificent garments in damp tatters. It was an illithid and if its eyes, resembling nothing so much as overcooked custard, were any indication, it had little life left to it. Staring up from the back of the revolting creature's gray hand was Vritra's eye, glaring and malevolent. In a home of illithid flesh it looked far more normal, though equally alien as the illithid itself.

Jarlaxle and Ashrei were joined in stunned stares as they beheld the pathetic mindflayer. In the Underdark not even the dark elves were as feared as illithids, but in the presence of Vritra, it was nothing but a dumb corpse that had yet to expire. Jarlaxle could see how Casteja came to be with the illithids.

Both drow were startled out of their momentary shock by the sound of Inyol's necromantic sword hitting the floor. Near the black blade, a familiar red eye patch lay among the tatters of the illithid's ravaged clothing.

"Do you recall what I told you," Casteja spoke weakly from his bloody patch of stone. "That only the ignorant could know Vritra inside and out."

"Yes," Jarlaxle and Ashrei replied in unison. The two looked at each other for a moment, recognizing Casteja's warning had not only been out of hand, but repeated. The blood was no longer flowing freely from his shoulder, but he had stopped trying to advance toward Vritra. The man slumped to the floor, his deathly pale cheek rested on the ground and the tendrils of his dark hair swirled in static spirals on the stone.

"To free Inyol," he said faintly, "you must kill this thing or cut off its arm. Vritra tells me that it will not stop you. In fact, if I know Vritra at all, it will compel you to kill the creature if you do not do so immediately."

"Even if it could compel me it would not need to," Ashrei snarled. Freed form her shock, she surged forward. Her steps were jerky and slightly uneven; agitation was revealed through her body's straining control.

"But you must not touch the sword once you've killed it!" Casteja gasped.

Ashrei made no indication she heard him. She threw herself at the illithid, her momentum great enough that she slid the last few meters to it on her leather clad knees. Her short-nailed fingers dove through the array of tentacles and under the creature's listless head to seize its scrawny neck.

Pumped full of adrenaline, Ashrei's fingers did not simply cut of the flow of oxygen to the creature's lifeless brain nor did her hands jerk the head to one side to break the over-taxed neck. Instead, blunt though her fingers were, Ashrei's short-nailed fingertips dove through papery skin and into the flesh beyond.

Jarlaxle was impressed. He had always known Ashrei was a fierce contender, a brilliant tactical mind when it came to Underdark armies and terrain. He knew she was ambitious and as concerned with building her status as much as attaining wealth and battlefields. She had a lust for battle and a desire for sons that could support her in her endeavors, but Jarlaxle had never known for certain that she was, deep in her twisted heart, a maternal creature.

He knew all he was to her was breeding material and a good source for exotic materials, but it seemed her offspring were more than tools after all. It was far more shocking to him than Inyol's disappearance or the illithid's emergence.

With a shrill cry of wild victory, Ashrei ripped out the unresisting creature's throat with her bare hands. Blood splashed across her torso and face. A veteran of thousands of battles, she was hardly unprepared for the bath; to avoid being blinded she blinked just as the spray hit her face just as she would on the battlefield.

Jarlaxle crouched just behind Ashrei and to her left, his hand ghosting over the tattered remains of the bleeding illithid's clothing. His other hand took firm hold of Inyol's doubly deadly blade. Hair pink with blood and plastered to her face by the same, she smirked at the mercenary through the blood drops clinging to her white eyelashes. "You'll give it back to Inyol when he arrives."

The mercenary only smiled and slid his eye patch back over one eye. "You still owe me for my partner." He looked down the passage to where Entreri had fallen, but they had moved along the curving corridor enough that his body, and those of Ashrei's fallen sons, was blocked from view.

A liquid gurgle interrupted them and announced the last throes of the illithid's motor system. Ashrei took to her feet and backed away from the creature with Jarlaxle. Again, Vritra's eye lost consistency and pooled out onto the floor; it was no less disconcerting despite a second viewing. As before, the coppery liquid flowed into the silhouette of the malevolent sword. It was over again when the glassy eye finally opened on the cross guard.

"Help me to it," Casteja ordered in as firm a voice as he could command. Jarlaxle was impressed with the man, close as he was to death. He wondered again why Vritra had not healed the man, he was beginning to believe the creature could not do so or it was letting the man suffer in order to force dependency on him.

Working together, Ashrei and Jarlaxle both spared a free arm to pull the much taller Casteja over to the illithid's actualized corpse and the cold stare of the psionic sword. Already saturated with blood, Ashrei took Casteja's left side and again closed her hand over the raw wound that remained of his arm. "This did not at all turn out as I planned, Casteja. That's all I will say; the rest is up to you to decide."

Gritting his teeth against the pain, he gave her a brief nod. "I always knew your true feeling. It was a point of interest to Vritra."

Her brow knit in confusion, congealing blood cracked apart into a lattice of black lines on her forehead. "My ward…"

"You were right to take the earrings," he coughed light-heartedly. "They cancelled your ward, but only as long as we were touching."

She rolled her eyes. "When possible, we touched a lot, 'Steja."

Jarlaxle chuckled as they set Casteja down before the sword. "I'm sure you did."

The man smiled weakly as he stared down at Vritra's jewel eye. "When I touch the sword, Inyol and I will trade places. I'm not sure how Vritra has taken to him, probably not as badly as the other. If Vritra finds him interesting and Inyol proves adaptable, it could work out. I don't know; Vritra was still exploring him for possibilities while it was communicating with me from the illithid-thing."

Ashrei's expression was openly perplexed, but she said nothing to the man, even though he was offering to free her secondboy at the price of his own imprisonment. She gnawed slightly at her lower lip, fresh red blood mixed with the drying blood from the illithid and the congealing blood from Casteja's shoulder.

"You're too proud to ask me why I'm doing this," Casteja said, trying to be stern, but only sounding sleepy. Jarlaxle looked at Ashrei over the man's head with clear warning, but Ashrei knew Casteja's life was limited and only nodded slightly. "You may be a terrible, cheating, bitch… but your boys still need a mother. And bleeding to death isn't in my best interests."

He reached with his right hand, though he had always preferred his left, and gently placed his tough fingertips on Vritra's smooth topaz eye. The reaction was swift. One moment Casteja was leaning back against Jarlaxle's support, blue eyes clapped on Ashrei's red gaze and then Inyol crashed between the two drow in a tangled heap. All that was left of Casteja was a sloppy field of red and four clear words.

"I do not surrender."

Jarlaxle did not miss the brief smile in Ashrei's eyes at the words nor the quickly hidden satisfaction at seeing her secondboy.

Inyol's expression was haunted as he looked around in a daze. His padded black clothing was warm and damp, his white hair stuck to his forehead and cheeks. No sign of recognition entered his eyes nor did his expression change from one of mild horror.

Ashrei did not wait for recognition or reaction, she seized the lad's jaw in one bloody hand and directed his gaze to her face. She spoke to him in clear Drow. "Inyol, how old are you?"

Sticky white lashes fluttered before his gaze, but he answered quickly in further confusion. "Twenty-two."

"In years, not decades, boy." She was smirking now, satisfied by his answer. Jarlaxle attributed her ease to how Inyol should answer to a human, but he was still speaking in Drow.

"Two hundred, twenty-one."

"He's not as young as I thought," Jarlaxle commented, "takes after his mother, I suppose." He stood and retrieved both Inyol's black sword and Soraze's silver blade.

Ashrei was trying to help Inyol stand when the mercenary came back to slide the dangerous blade into the dazed male's scabbard. His vermillion eyes did not focus on anything, but he was balancing on two feet with help from his mother. It reminded Jarlaxle distinctly of what Vritra had done to Entreri in the swamp.

The memory came with a sharp stab of loss. If Vritra had not taken so much interest in the assassin's mind, the man would be there to help him find a way to part Inyol and the blade without undue mess. Jarlaxle did not particularly want the blade, but he did not want Ashrei to keep it. The dangerous female had always been problematic; the Fickle General with a psionic monstrosity on her hands, in Inyol's hand at any rate, was not a readily solved problem.

A glance back at the secondboy, standing shakily on legs grown unfamiliar, and Jarlaxle noted the boy's eyes were similar in color to the glassy eye staring out of his right hand. It was not a sight he wanted to see. Shrugging, he turned away and headed down the hall toward the spot Entreri had fallen. He told himself the trip was just to make sure the assassin's body did not remain within the fortress. It could be a good opportunity to slip away and find his vast array of magic items.

Absorbed by her secondboy's status, Ashrei let him go; she knew he could not go far in a fortress filled with soldiers that would kill any drow on sight.

On his way down the corridor to find Entreri's body, he was met by Soraze and Ashrei's other two sons. No worse for wear, they seemed ready to attack when Jarlaxle held Soraze's sword out to him. "Boys," he smiled wryly, "don't start something you're certain to lose; your mother would not be happy."

"Where is she?" Soraze asked. His bored tone took a new shape that verged on agitation.

"Behind me with your elder brother, Inyol," Jarlaxle returned. "I suggest you find your eldest brother to transfigure them before soldiers are alerted to Captain Vektch's drow-infested escape attempt. I'll rejoin you shortly."

Swords held by the other two brothers flashed up and flanked Jarlaxle as a wary Soraze reached for his blade. His fingers curled around the hilt and he drew it away from the older male's hand. "No, you will come with us now. Not for your safety, though you could think of it as such, but because General Ashrei has not told us you may walk away. Consider what the common soldiers here would do to you if they found you without chaperone."

Jarlaxle had not become the captain of Bregan D'aerthe by allowing young males, whether they were related or not, to dictate what he could or couldn't do. He backed up a step and tapped the wand meaningfully against his cloth-covered bicep. They didn't know which it was nor that it had no charges left to expend. His confidence and reputation was weapon enough against the three brothers, but he didn't mind adding an extra weapon to fuel their imaginations. "Perhaps you would like to escort me to my partner's body, then?"

"It isn't there," the male on Soraze's right snorted. "The blood trail suggests he crawled to the stairs. There's no doubt he died on them or as he crashed to the bottom. I'm sure the general will give you his non-magical effects, if that's what you're after."

"Perhaps even the magical ones," the brother on the left added, "if you play correctly. She says there are few that play a more wicked game of sava than you."

Compliment or statement of fact, Jarlaxle hardly took note. He was not the type to delude himself with false hope. Entreri was possessed of more mulishness and pig-headed determination than all the farm animals in Chondath, but a dagger to vital organs was nothing short of lethal. Unless the assassin could channel all that will into a prayer to a deity, which was about as likely as Jarlaxle giving up his magic items for charity, or suddenly manifest psionic self-healing powers of dramatic proportions, there was no room for hope.

He almost took hold of the psionic option; he had heard of people exposed to psionics suddenly developing a wild talent, but he didn't find it likely. Entreri had already had both Jaka and Kimmuriel in his mind and/or supply him with loaned psionics and the man had not sported any new powers for the experience. Vritra had certainly had an effect on the assassin, but it tolerated no other psionic creature to be around it. Which brought Jarlaxle back to a previous, and much more relevant, thought; how had the illithids come to hold and contain it?

Setting his unproductive musings over Entreri aside, Jarlaxle narrowed his focus to how the mindflayers held Vritra. Switching gears brought his previous goal to mind as well and prompted him to shift his course.

The male gave the three siblings a sly smile and bowed deeply. "Lead the way, my friends." With a tightening of his gloved hand, he already had half the answer he needed.

There was a new edition to the assembly when they returned to Ashrei. The figure was short for a human, but with the elegant way of holding himself common to most of the elven races. The newly arrived male holding Ashrei's other wand could be none other than Israljen, her powerful firstboy. An array of pouches on his belt and convenient pockets on his trousers' hips were indication enough. He was a male that seemed to take easily to the Chondathan penchant for utilitarian attire. Jarlaxle found such things boring.

Thanks to his efforts, Ashrei was already resplendent in her transfigured form. She was taller than all of them as drow females normally were, but as a woman she towered above most human males. It was a nod to her deception about being from mysterious Ixinos.

Her youngest, Kiretheo was also on the scene. He carried hand towels and a steaming basin of water that looked far too heavy for a boy his size to move around. He was at work, washing his mother's hands; her face was already clean of blood.

Inyol's transfigured shape had been restored, but Jarlaxle guessed that was the work of the wand in Israljen's hands. He was now steady on his feet, his blue-green eyes were clearer, but had not regained half their former luster. Vritra's mute eye was the only thing that had not changed; it reflected flickering firelight from the torches and magical lights in the hall. There were no windows on this level, had they even been near an exterior wall.

"Is he dead now?" Ashrei asked Jarlaxle bluntly, taking her hands from Kiretheo's meticulous care. "He had great force of will to survive as long as he did. If not for Vritra, I think he would have whipped me to death with my own entrails."

"Surely not," the mercenary shrugged, walking easily before her three younger sons, as if he was leading them to her rather than the other way around. "It seems Arrabar's mighty soldiers will soon be beating a path to your door."

Ashrei's grin was purely wolfish. "Dogs that come to heel for their mistress' commands. I've never encountered so many creatures that yearn to be told what to do."

"And now that you have Vritra?" Jarlaxle prompted. "Will they be even more malleable? Probably not, Master Vektch confided in me that the creature is not controllable."

The general snorted, "I never knew Casteja to be particularly honest. You've seen him summon it in and out of his flesh, haven't you? He provided it a way to read my mind, didn't he? Why would he go to the trouble, if Vritra wasn't amenable to his will?"

Knowing the power of a perfectly mysterious smile, Jarlaxle gave her exactly that and lied. "Why, I have no idea, Lady General. Instead, I know this: now that your lover is trapped within the blade and my ally lies dead at your hands, you are in my debt. I never agreed that our contract, which resulted in Soraze, was broken. It isn't. And even if, for the sake of argument, it was, Artemis Entreri was a seasoned killer worth far more than the young lad. It will not be enough for you to return all of my effects, his effects, and supply the reward for Captain Vektch's capture. There will have to be much more than that."

The wolfish smile turned to wicked enthusiasm, as Ashrei listened to the mercenary's opening salvo. Her lips parted to make way for a heated retort, but the words slipped away as the metal basin Kiretheo held clanged loudly to the floor and his small body crumpled over it. Of her sons, only Inyol remained standing, the other simply collapsed. Both Jarlaxle and Ashrei immediately stared at the dilated eye imbedded in Inyol's skin.

"This is getting old," Ashrei stated dryly.

The secondboy reacted quickly to the collapse of his siblings, though his reactions were delayed and he did not know where his opponent was. His right hand flew to his black blade and his fingers wrapped around the hilt and drew it out to a ready position.

And then it fell from his fingers.

He felt disturbing movements under his skin, like muscles twitching and straying from bone, but without pain. Those muscles curled around tendons and pulled hard so his right hand had sprung rigidly open. Aghast at the alien creature within his flesh and straining to close his hand into a fist, he did not have a chance to defend himself.

Another sudden eruption of blood filled the air as a blurred arc of red steel sliced upwards between Inyol's shoulder and bicep. The blade spun an extra circle to remove blood and dove with unerring accuracy for Ashrei's feathery eyelashes. The female was splashed with blood again, but the point of the sword, that particular sword, arrested any movement.

"I'm not ready to give up my effects, thank you," came a rough voice Jarlaxle wanted to hear again, even if it was only through a summoning.

The assassin was not looking well, his face was more pale and drawn than the mercenary had ever seen. There were dark circles under his darker eyes and hollowness to his expression he'd never seen on the man. Despite the eerily haggard look, Entreri had no trace of injury; even the acid damage on his chin was completely repaired with only a faint pink line to show for it.

"Artemis!" Brightness infused Jarlaxle's expression, despite his black skin when he saw Entreri's unscathed condition. It didn't matter whether the man looked like hell had vomited him or not.

"Jarlaxle can heal him with this," Entreri told Ashrei nonchalantly, tossing the black healing orb to the mercenary. The assassin kept his Netherese blade pointed at her narrowed and hateful eye. With his hand free of the orb he motioned to Jarlaxle. "I need the glove to pick up Vritra."

The dark elf smirked knowingly as he peeled the glove off his hand. "You had this planned from the start. If that is how you wanted to pay me back for not telling you what I was up to, then it was a masterwork."

"I'm not sure it was really worth it," Entreri rasped with pained sincerity. He reached out for the glove, but Jarlaxle pulled it back teasingly.

"Did you manage to stab someone just as you were on the brink of death?"

"I couldn't possibly be in less of a mood for this," the assassin grated, his gaze a horrid stare that spoke of experiences living creatures should not know. "Give me the glove and heal her son or grab the sword yourself and let him bleed; I don't care."

Too pleased to see Entreri alive, the dark elf male did not let the man's attitude concern him over much. Artemis Entreri was one of the most resilient men he had ever met; he was certain whatever he had experienced would not keep him down for long. In his enthusiasm, he went so far as to slip the glove halfway over the assassin's hand.

"Did you retrieve my equipment," he asked eagerly, crouching down to Inyol with his healing orb.

"Yes," Entreri replied. He gripped the edge of the gauntlet in his teeth and pulled it fully over his hand. Staring into Ashrei's murderous citrine eyes he only said, "Walk forward with me and follow my instructions well or you will end up like every other person who has ever touched this sword."

Inyol had lost consciousness and fallen to the stone floor like all his brothers. Jarlaxle felt some sympathy for the boy; the orb could not restore his arm. There were very few ways to restore a severed arm, and barring Ashrei resorting to one of those ways, the lad's ability to cast and fight simultaneously was at an end. It was really a shame, the mercenary mused; the skill would have been welcome in Bregan D'aerthe. Quietly, he began the chant that released the rare magic item's healing touch.

When they neared the sword, Entreri commanded Ashrei to kneel. At first, she resisted the order, for drow females did not kneel to males, especially not human ones. The tip of the red blade came forward, neatly cutting eyelashes on its way to her eye. From the close proximity, she could feel the blade's burning hatred and hunger. It was enough to convince her of the error in pride; she began to kneel very slowly.

Entreri crouched with her, the slow movement something of a strain on his muscles. Logically he knew his body was not actually exhausted; it was pumped to perfect health on stolen life. It was likewise, not a trick of his mind, but an affliction of spirit that had come as his vampiric dagger drew out and fed him his own life force. He had no intention of ever repeating the stunt.

The sword lay on the floor, cold and ugly. He didn't want to touch it, but he wasn't going to leave it lying around for Ashrei and her brood. Keeping Charon's Claw near Ashrei's eye, he extended his arm and picked the sword up.

"Stand," he whispered harshly.

The first thing he noticed as he stood with the sword, was that it was easily the worst balanced instrument of death he had ever held in his life. The second was that his mind was not being enslaved by slavering madness of the worst kind, nor was he being sucked into the horrific fleshy prison that he knew lay at the heart of the weapon.

Entreri knew a brief moment of relief and the small emotion lifted some of the weight pressing down on him body and soul.

When Jarlaxle finished with Inyol's arm, the mercenary patted the male's head affectionately and stood with a pronounced stretch. Yawning lazily, he cast a look over at Ashrei and Entreri; the assassin appeared a little better. He was pleased to not only coming out of the adventure with all the leverage he needed, but without losing a friend.

Then he heard shouting reverberating from both ends of the corridor and the clatter of boots on stone. Low moans announced Ashrei's sons' recovery. Vritra's influence had worn off.

"Artemis," he smiled, "it would be best if Vritra knocked everyone out again until we receive our payment and are away."

Entreri shrugged and swung Vritra under Ashrei's chin and Charon's Claw back into its scabbard; he was certain she had no intention of sacrificing herself for Casteja's release. "It can't."

Sighing, Jarlaxle nodded. "That makes our position a bit more difficult."

For the first time in several days, Entreri turned to regard Jarlaxle with sudden and sincere, amusement. Three long paces took him from Ashrei's immediate presence. "Not 'our' position, Jarlaxle; your position."

The drow male looked at the assassin curiously, initially not comprehending what Entreri intended. "You have yet another part to this plan?"

It seemed to him whatever was weighing the assassin down lifted even more when he voiced the question. Part of the crafty drow wanted to be relieved by the sight, but the realistic portion of his mind whispered that he was about to get severely screwed.

"Do you recall the times you let me do things the hard way," Entreri said, his tone uninflected, "while you simply resorted to a more efficient magical means?"

The soldier were coming ever closer. Except for Inyol, Ashrei's sons were beginning to pull themselves to their hands and knees.

Jarlaxle laughed silently so nervousness would not be heard in his voice. "Entreri, now is not the time to be spiteful. Give me my equipment."

The assassin nodded and slipped his free hand into a pouch on his hip; it was one Jarlaxle recognized as his own. Entreri fished out a ring and let it slide down his finger. With that ring's appearance, the dark elf knew exactly what Entreri intended. His hopes fell away and his mind was again working at a furious pace, trying to discern a way to reverse his sudden change in fortune. "I said I retrieved your equipment, not that I'd give it to you."

His hand fell to the pouch one more time and then something silver was arcing the dark elf's way. Jarlaxle's quick eyes told him what it was long before he caught the whistle easily in one hand.

Entreri opened the ring's very last dimensional door, stepped back through the portal, and lifted Vritra in a mocking salute. Soldiers flooded the area from both sides as it closed. The assassin was a hundred miles away and Jarlaxle was left flanked by angry soldiers and vengeful drow. Entreri had just out-betrayed him.

Looking around at the surrounding faces in all their menace, the mercenary turned back to the empty space he'd last seen the assassin. Shaking his head ruefully, Jarlaxle didn't restrain himself from a good strong laugh.


	15. epilogue

Iceheart Firesoul: I was actually tempted to kill Entreri off because I don't like the PotWK storyline that came out of the short story, _Wickless in the Nether_. But the story wouldn't work if I did. Besides, a little humility is good for Jarlaxle's soul.  
Yuen: Glad you enjoyed it, thanks.

A/N: The epilogue turned into a chapter. Now would be a good time to ask any questions about the story; I fully intend to use the 'cut scenes' pseudo-chapter to answer them.

* * *

_Fly, thought, on wings of gold,  
__go settle upon the slopes and the hills  
__where the sweet airs of our  
__native soil smell soft and mild!  
__...Oh, my country so lovely and lost!  
__Oh, remembrance so dear so fraught with despair!  
-_Giuseppe Verdi, _Home_ (derived from his opera, _Nabucco_)

_Epilogue_

Entreri didn't have severe issues with Chondath's mosquitoes or biting flies, but the heat was getting on his nerves. In Chondalwood's enclosed spaces it was twice as bad. As an assassin used to working in a desert environment, he was used to dry heat and cool nights. The heat was not as brutal as Calimshan's summer sun, but the humidity was constant and pervasive. With spring edging toward summer, the nights did not bring their previous cool relief.

He wasn't thrilled with the soupy conditions and he'd gotten over the charming glow of the fireflies. More difficult to get over were the revolving shadows the small creatures created; even without a breeze the moving lights created a constant illusion of disconcerting movement. The high volume of the incessant cicada population was annoying in the extreme. The buzz hardly ceased during the day and was without pause during the smothering nights. Entreri was not the happiest of campers.

He had long since banked his small campfire and rested his back against a tree with smooth bark. His knees were drawn up and his chin rested easily on his chest. His gloved hand was curled around a long, cloth-wrapped package that did little to conceal Vritra's dimensions. At least in sedate Chondath nobody asked questions, whether they were going to rob a traveler or not.

Not comfortable traveling without proper protection, but not interested in his stifling leathers, the assassin had taken to relying exclusively on the lightweight and breathable black shirt Jakadirek Mi'iduor had sewn. That comfort had been interrupted when the drow tailor had shown up in the middle of a Chondalwood night to retrieve the item.

Initially Entreri was unwilling to give up the comfortable protection. After a flat refusal to give up the shirt, the assassin capitulated on the basis of information. His questions were cruel and pragmatic. He came out of the trade with an understanding of what Vritra did to Jaka, clarification on details Vritra's had left in his mind, and that the lad hadn't seen or heard from Jarlaxle in more than a tenday. Even though he got what he wanted out of the young male, the exchange reminded the assassin that his hatred of dark elves was not racist, but merely pragmatic.

Despite losing the protection of the thin black material, the assassin took to traveling and sleeping in his sleeveless undershirt. His senses were preternaturally sharp; he trusted them to alert him to danger before a hypothetical attack could land on him.

Due to the heat and humidity, it still took Entreri a long time to fall under the influence of sleep, even dressed lightly within the thin traveling cloak he had purchased a week prior in Iljak.

Iljak had been a disappointment. The dimension door had opened in the room he and Jarlaxle had shared their first night in the disagreeable country. His first concern was to wrap Vritra in his thick traveling cloak before heading out past a startled housekeeper to purchase a cloak more appropriate to the weather. He found something better to wrap the sword in at the same time. His next step had been to pick up some money.

When he'd gone to recover his deposit for the rented horses, he discovered the mercenaries had indeed returned the horses for him as they promised to do. They had also helped themselves to his deposit. Shir, the ranger, had even left a note explaining they felt it was a just recompense for thieving from the merchant wagon. Entreri had fumed in silence. He had no intention of scouring the countryside for the group, especially over something that started with the theft of dried lemon peel.

As hard as sleep was to come by, he woke instantly the moment he felt a gaze upon him. He was certain he'd only slept a few hours when the feeling swept over him. Instinctually, his gloved hand tightened on Vritra and his opposite on Charon's Claw. The droning cicadas, locusts, and crickets made a wall of noise that crushed other sounds far below normal hearing. Entreri's hearing, though sharp, was still only that of a human; there was nothing to hear beneath the cover of insect racket.

As he waited, eyes peering into the night through a blur of black lashes, the assassin noticed a strange phenomenon. It was not visible, but somewhat audible, or more correctly, inaudible. The cicadas in the tree he was leaning against were loud, but he could still hear the locusts and crickets in other areas of the wood. It was hard to distinguish, but there was a disconcerting lack of noise further out and that lack of noise was moving through the forest like a bubble.

The fleeting sense was quickly lost in the racket saturating the wooded expanse. It was, after all, only noticeable as a cessation of noise and the space was easily filled by the insects infesting the area. Falling back into sleep was nearly impossible, even without the piercing knowledge that the path the bizarre bubble of 'non-noise' had taken was the same Entreri had yet to complete.

Morning light did not find him well rested, but he went through the motions of breaking his small camp and was soon on his way. As he walked, he looked for signs of the mysterious phenomenon, but found no trace. Eventually, he dismissed the phantom as proof the forest really was haunted.

The weather continued to be inhospitable to the desert-born man, but it was not the problem bleakness of spirit had been in the beginning of the journey. a decade earlier when Entreri had first thought of faking his death with the dagger, he had known it was the sort of risky stunt that would come with a high price. The despair left in the wake of the theft of life force had convinced the assassin that between his unnamed dagger and Charon's Claw, a merciful death would be more likely from the seething blood red blade.

Entreri held no illusions that the sentience within Charon's Claw called for his death every moment of its existence, and a hideous death at that. His dagger, nothing more than an unfeeling tool, did not afflict the body; it afflicted the spirit. Previous in his career as a heartless killer, Entreri would not have seen the difference between the two weapons. The man had learned to differentiate since his time in Menzoberranzan and the self-destructive stint that followed him to Calimport.

The cure for the spiritual affliction was surprising. When he betrayed Jarlaxle, as he had decided he would during their brief imprisonment, it had amused the assassin. Satisfaction had improved his condition. It was a bizarre situation and one that came with a certain annoying understanding. Obviously, the moronic saying that laughter was good for the soul wasn't totally unfounded. It was more proof that Jarlaxle's ability to enjoy himself no matter the situation was healthy. The assassin assured himself that the drow overdid it, but was persuaded again that it wouldn't weaken him to enjoy life a little more. There was still a question of how to do so.

With a smirk, he recalled the look on Jarlaxle's face the moment the dark elf had figured out Entreri was going to leave him with Ashrei. Remembering the mercenary's stricken expression had done the assassin a world of good. As far as the dark elf went, Entreri considered the two betrayals cancelled each other out. He would never allow a betrayal to cancel a betrayal for anyone else.

---

Entreri arrived at his destination under cover of night. He was uncertain the timing was not Vritra's intent, but under wraps and in his gauntleted hand, the assassin supposed any subliminal direction still wriggling in his blood was strictly residual.

The night failed to bring relief from the heat and within the swamp the humidity was a suffocating haze. Slogging alone through hip deep waters had not worried him the first time he had traversed the area. With two other creatures with him, enough water was disturbed that few predators were interested in attacking. Traveling alone was far more dangerous.

Entreri could not see beneath the violently green mass of tiny green leaves floating on top of the water. He relied on his hearing for the sounds of large objects sliding into the water and other water movements. His eyes focused on no point in specific, but gathered in the general layout of his surroundings. Any rippling of the wet carpet spread across the water was analyzed with obsessive accuracy.

Ahead loomed the hill marked and claimed by long abandoned shrines. Obeying ingrained caution, Entreri did not follow the softly glowing stones up the rise, but traversed the odd hill's circumference. It was not perfectly round, but it still struck Entreri as unnatural. It put him in mind of the mound-building activities of some of the more primitive peoples he'd seen traveling through diverse lands. It was still a habit of the Northern barbarians, he mused, thinking back to his brief trip through the snow-covered reaches.

Stranger to the assassin was not the shape of the hill or the enormous amount of luminescent moss encroaching over every available surface: it was the scarcity of animal activity. There were traces of alligators, swamp deer, and a few other creatures, but nothing made a home of the hill. A few prints left by lizard men dotted the base of the hill and those associated with Casteja's mad flight almost two tenday past.

Entreri crouched by one of Casteja's prints, which was filled with water and had the first fingers of glowing moss spreading across it. His own foot steps, light as they were even in a full run, were also evident, but as dark marks scarring the terrain. Jarlaxle's harsh boot heels had scored less deeply into the soft earth than Casteja's but they were equally as dark.

The assassin had expected to find more humanoid tracks, but there were none; obviously Casteja had informed no one where he and Tan were going. It didn't convince him there wasn't another presence on the hill. He recalled the short conversation between Jaka and Jarlaxle about the hill being haunted, but was not an expert in such matters. If a presence or moment lay over the area, Entreri was not skilled in reading the ambience. He tentatively wrote the feeling off to the meeting he expected to take place at the shrine and began to ascend the hill in order to approach the small structure from the back.

His approach was quiet, the shadow of a shadow; silence covered by a soft wind that flowed around the firefly-lit hill. The heavy scent of musty incense clothed the breeze near the summit. It was a familiar scent that announced the presence he expected. The sinuous gray smoke was not visible until his dark eyes made out the darkened granite slabs that comprised the structures three vine-covered sides.

Once in sight, Entreri's perceptive ears also picked up familiar sounds. A boot heel tapping stone, the rustle of cloth, a clink of glass. Entreri's mind composed the scene before he even saw what he knew would be a meticulously established tableau. He approached with all the caution one should employ when meeting with a well-prepared dark elf.

The sludge-filled incense urn had been cleaned out, new sand filled it, and the finest grade of dark elven incense was smoldering within. Entreri was relieved to note it was not an intoxicating blend that was sending smoke trails around the shrine.

Many of the candles were gone, but several new ones were mounted on the rusted iron spikes. Only half the new ones were lit, throwing flickering light onto the colorful mercenary and illuminating the jaunty diatryma feather in what Entreri assumed was a new hat rather than a patched one. The altar was spread with his rainbow colored cape and Jarlaxle sat atop that, one leg crossed over the other, his boot tapping rhythmically against the urn.

He was wearing a new set of clothes in a riot of color that might have given a lesser man an intense headache. The assassin was used to the onslaught and hardly cringed. The lack of black shirt was the only item that caused Entreri to sneer. Either the little bastard had lied about seeing or hearing word of Jarlaxle or the mercenary had packed the shirt away.

Joining the drow on the altar was a bottle of rare wine, a leather-bound container, and a ceramic vessel of drow make. Entreri had a guess what the implements portended, but didn't make assumptions. Considering the terms they had parted under, Entreri was ready for a deadly confrontation of epic proportion and scathing manners.

"I knew you wouldn't leave me at the altar," the mercenary smirked, raising a wine glass in a mock salute the moment the assassin came into view.

"Far be it for me to disappoint you," Entreri returned, completely ignoring the joke. He wasn't sure if Jarlaxle had picked a seat on the altar for theatrical or strategic reasons. Likely both; the dark elf had managed to place himself in the assassin's way.

"You have yet to truly disappoint me," Jarlaxle chuckled, placing the wine glass in the air, as if resting it on an invisible shelf. Exhibiting no obvious caution, the cagey drow opened the leather-bound cylinder and proceeded to pour a dark liquid into the ceramic vessel. Entreri saw the steam and knew the earthy scent of coffee, even if he didn't know what kind it was.

"You've gone out of your way to make this a pleasant reunion," Entreri stated without emotion. If he'd been less professional all the pleasantries Jarlaxle had brought with him would only make him nervous.

The dark elf grinned wickedly at the statement and nodded. "My friend, how could I do any less for somebody who outfoxed me so cleverly? Especially when you made it clear you wanted me to find you? It seems we are almost completely settled up."

Entreri's eyes narrowed at the dark elf's words, a look of skepticism that said all he needed without wasting his breath.

Jarlaxle laughed at the expression and offered the cup of fragrant coffee. "Artemis, you took a small hoard of magic items and valuables with you. If that wasn't an engraved invitation, I don't know what is."

Paranoia lived in every inch of Entreri's soul, but he took the offering in his left hand, while his right stayed wrapped around Vritra. If Jarlaxle planned to kill him, there were more painful ways than poison. He knew the drow as the vengeful sort, fully capable of dragging out death until he became bored with the proceedings. By that reasoning, he believed the drink was safe, but drinking with a possible enemy wasn't Entreri's custom. "You said 'almost'. What have we left to settle?"

"So, you don't deny that keeping my property was an invitation?" The malicious dark elf grinned knowingly at the immediate scowl that appeared on Entreri's face. Perhaps the assassin wasn't the type to force a verbal apology out of Jarlaxle, but Jarlaxle wasn't the type to refrain from annoying the man needlessly.

"If getting rid of it frees me of your presence," Entreri snorted, "I can easily dispose of it in the swamp."

Jarlaxle only shrugged and took the glass of wine back. "The 'almost' I mentioned involves you returning my belongings. I admit I wronged you and then you, my sly friend, evened the score. Ah, the position you left me in, Artemis, looked quite bleak."

A hint of a smirk pulled faintly at the assassin's lips. The look was so brief and miniscule that Jarlaxle thought it likely Entreri wasn't aware of it. "I'm sure you made the best of the situation."

Mischief sparkled in the dark elf's uncovered red eye. Pausing for dramatic effect, he took a slow sip of his wine before answering. The pause did not affect the assassin, but Jarlaxle could no more divorce his theatrical leanings than he could his heritage. Moreover, he enjoyed both too much to think of trying to change one or the other.

"Yes, I must admit that I was no less than brilliant," Jarlaxle sighed in smug self-satisfaction. He pursed his dark lips thoughtfully and looked up in remembrance. "I got everything I wanted: the reward, information, some agreements, and the sort of sex that requires a good masseuse the next day. You understand that since you were not present, I had to accept your half of the reward."

Entreri gave Jarlaxle a revolted look. "I pray you do not imply that the general laid you on my behalf."

The mercenary's visible eye narrowed slightly in response, but the smile did not leave his face. "If I did, would you lose control of your temper again?"

Any goodwill the assassin was beginning to feel was abruptly doused from his system. His eyes grew hard and unfeeling as the taunt recalled all Entreri's usual armor, closing off his emotions just as surely as he always had. "You must have replenished your supply of magic items already, or you wouldn't ask."

In no way did Jarlaxle lose his composure; this was a strategic attack. He'd had a week to study and analyze the whole adventure and Entreri's behavior from beginning to end. "I suspect Vritra revived your rage as it revived Jaka's weakness. Sweet Lady Lolth, it must be an incredible drain to fight that temper of yours."

The mere mention of the resurgence in his anger heated the assassin's blood. In response, he summoned the ice he'd cultivated in his heart over the decades to numb his angry impulses. "It was Jaka's weakness that saved his mind."

Instantly intrigued by the remark, Jarlaxle leaned forward; Entreri had just offered him the opening to a conversation he'd been lusting after for more than a tenday. The key to besting any opponent was to understand their motivations, but Vritra was impossible to understand; its desires and physiology, its very existence, were utterly alien to anything the wily dark elf had ever experienced. "Do you know what his weakness is?"

Any answer, Entreri knew, could lead to a dangerous amount of personal information falling into Jarlaxle's possession. The last time they were in the swamp, Entreri could have allowed that, but without a clear understanding of Jarlaxle's current plan the assassin was didn't want to reveal anything.

He made no immediate verbal response, but set his untouched coffee on the altar and reached into one of the pouches on his belt to retrieve a familiar black purse. He weighed it needlessly in his hand, of more importance was his iron gaze as it met Jarlaxle's.

It was not an easily read expression and all the more difficult to interpret on the assassin's face. The crafty drow wished Kimmuriel were at hand to tell him what Entreri was thinking, but judging what he knew of the assassin, he doubted the master psionicist could manage. Ever was Entreri one so removed from personal emotion and introspection that it was likely the man had no idea what he was feeling. It looked two parts threat to one part dare with a dash of suspicion thrown in for good measure.

He had yet to decipher what it could mean when Entreri tossed the decorative bag to the mercenary. Jarlaxle caught it in his free hand, red eyes widening in speculative pleasure. It was his bottomless bag and, last he'd checked, it held the lion's share of his missing magic items and abundant wealth. With its return came the filament of understanding he needed to piece together the assassin's intention.

It was a matter of trust. Hated and despised trust. Trust he'd taken and spent like a cheap coin. Trust; the downfall of the foolish and cornerstone of friendship. Was Entreri's betrayal no less malignant? Only because it was a necessary comeuppance. Now the assassin was making a small show of giving back the stolen items. Jarlaxle was ready to be mistaken, but he interpreted the gesture as a return of a small portion of trust.

Jarlaxle set his glass on the cloak-draped altar and broke eye contact to look at the embroidered pouch. After a moment of silent contemplation, he looked up again. "In my time in Menzoberranzan I learned, among other boring things, basic math."

The suspicion in the assassin's demeanor intensified with the unexpected twist in conversation, but he nodded his understanding. It was a matter of habit or his unconventional intelligence that Jarlaxle always explained things in the most unexpected manner.

"Things like one plus one yields two," the dark elf continued. Entreri noted the male slipped the pouch away without checking the contents. "Or that two subtracted from one leaves you a deficit of one. We were taught certain mathematical equations are as eternal as time or revenge... Of course, you can imagine the sort of response one receives when it is suggested those eternal equations could be ended the moment they were disrupted with the insertion of a few strategically placed amounts."

The level gaze Entreri kept on Jarlaxle did not change when an old memory of a numerical diviner from Shaar surfaced. He wondered if he attracted people with mathematical leanings or if math was the most inoffensive way to explain certain issues to a man who specialized in ending life.

"Spare me the tutorial," the man stated coldly. He had a vague idea where Jarlaxle was going with the commentary, but wanted to spare himself the conclusion. There were words he didn't want to hear and things he didn't want to acknowledge. "Of course I know what Mi'iduor's weakness is, just as I know Vektch's."

The colorful mercenary took Entreri's return to the prior subject with a hint of a smile that understated the strength of his feeling. Only Jarlaxle could look on such a forbidding, negative man and see anything remotely positive. It was the same knack of seeing obscure patterns that told him much about the world around him and that suddenly pushed back his inner mirth. Understanding lanced through him; he knew what connected the three, perhaps even all four, of them.

"Jaka's problem lies with a twisted mother and Casteja saw his mother in Ashrei, even if it was subconscious. I doubt that was a coincidence."

"That was part of the issue," Entreri confirmed, firmly set against delving into the issue. He knew Jarlaxle was too brilliant not to think of a further connection and knew that to deny it was only to confirm it. "The other portion was that the sacrificed deity was a creature characterized by shedding light and blessing birth."

Intrigue lit Jarlaxle's features more brightly than the candles inside the darkened shrine. "And of course, this is her shrine, this Phosealis our tactician mentioned. I've never heard of either god; they must be quite ancient."

"Vektch discovered Vritra here during a war so long ago that there's no longer any reference to his country or gods," the assassin explained. He did not miss how easy it was to steer Jarlaxle from the previous topic. "He had no predisposition to distrust drow, because they were completely unknown to him before he was ejected from Vritra."

"He was the first to discover it, was he?" Leaning back, Jarlaxle struck a thoughtful pose. "We may not have existed yet. That is a terribly long time ago, Artemis. Ashrei mentioned something about Casteja living in 'old days' at the same time she complimented him about his ability to withstand things that would make most insane. Living for thousands on possibly thousands of years or spending time as an illithid study subject might make a person go mad, I suppose."

"He spent all those thousands of years inside Vritra," Entreri supplied with all seriousness, "imprisoned and hardly moving."

An astonished expression swept up Jarlaxle's eyebrows and rounded his eyes. "When did the illithids discover the sword?"

"Perhaps a thousand years ago," the assassin replied. "I think Vritra sustained his sanity through the ordeal by doing something to his perception of time. I won't pretend that I understand mind powers. The less I encounter them, the better."

The dark elf nodded, swirling wine in his delicate glass. Absently he followed the flickering glints the candlelight lent the surface of the liquid and admired the spiraling patterns created. "How long have you known all this?"

The question was potentially hazardous, but innocent enough. The assassin knew Jarlaxle knew him well enough to realize that he had not been affecting an act over the betrayal by deception. "I've known it actively since the cell door was blown back in Arrabar. When Vritra broke into my mind, it ravaged through my knowledge and experience. To aid its progress, it used information from Vektch and Mi'iduor. As a result, I know more about both of them than I'd like."

The dark elf took another sip of his wine before looking down at Entreri from his seat on the altar. "And that's why you've come here? Casteja's knowledge?"

The assassin remained uncertain of Jarlaxle's motives, but knew enough about the male to be sure he had no plans to get his greedy jet hands on Vritra. "My plan is to put the damn thing back where Vektch found it."

A serene smile drifted over Jarlaxle's face. "And that would be…?"

It wasn't out of the question that Jarlaxle was only there in order to find out where Entreri would drop the sword. Instantly the assassin's expression reverted to one of menace. "Why? So Jarlaxle can sell the information to the highest bidder?"

"Not necessarily," the mercenary protested, his free hand pressing over his heart. "I am an honorable male. Far be it for me to think of profit in such a grave case."

Jarlaxle was never more incongruent than when he tried to look innocent. Entreri dropped his left hand onto the hilt of Charon's Claw, but the dark elf only laughed. "Artemis, I swear to you I'm only interested in keeping tabs on it! I can think of no one I want to have it, other than Casteja, and even then it makes him to powerful to be useful to me. Besides, my friend, there are other things I want to know that have no bearing on profit. Like how Casteja came to find it."

In a way, Jarlaxle mourned all the wonderful information, the bits if history ages past and pieces of personal lives Entreri received. Taciturn men were graveyards for such stories, but he wouldn't have traded places with Entreri to get them. He was neither so generous nor loving a friend. Trying to get the assassin to tell him anything could be an arduous process typically rewarded with a bland recounting of facts.

Entreri wasn't inclined to delve into the memories he'd received from Vritra. With Casteja gone and little chance of having to deal with Jaka again, there was no reason to do so. He thought back anyway, to the vague image of a gray morning thousands of years past.

There was a chaotic scene, an injured Casteja clad in gray, stained with red, the feeling of frozen breath blowing back in his face. A meeting with his wolfish mother on the churned and frost covered field as he had tried to gain the safety of the shrine of Phosealis.

"He and his mother were on a battlefield in this area," the assassin began. "His side was losing and he was running to this shrine to take cover. As a joke, she nearly ran him down on her war horse, but it was no joke that she, like a good mercenary, had switched to his enemy's side."

A snort escaped Jarlaxle as he refilled his glass. "No wonder all the stories he told me of her only warm my blood. She sounds divine."

Entreri was careful not to let Casteja's memory cloud his judgment; the dual feelings for the woman were not his. "While the two were talking, a powerful weapon was fired in their direction. His mother set spurs to her horse, leaving a wounded Vektch to run for cover on foot. The projectile did not hit either of them, but broke up the ground all around. The force of the explosion caused him internal injury and frozen debris shredded much of his flesh. He was thrown to the foot of the shrine where the ground was split wide."

"And his mother?" The dark elf asked the question casually, though his interest was more intense. He offered Entreri the cup of coffee again. "I recall that you like your swill hot."

Relenting a bit at a time to Jarlaxle's familiarity, Entreri took the dark brew in hand, but did not drink. "She returned with her horse, unscathed. It was Vektch's bad luck to fall into one of the rents in the ground. When he asked for help out of the deep rut, she said nothing and turned her horse back toward the battle."

"Casteja could never get over how his mother left him to die on the battlefield," Jarlaxle mused, covertly noting the carefully emotionless mask on Entreri's face. It was the mercenary's strong suspicion that the assassin was faced with a similar situation in his mysterious youth. In a way, Jarlaxle was grateful his megalomaniacal mother had sacrificed him at birth; it was hard for a dark elf to ever have feelings for family members in a Lolthian society. Rejection at birth was a sure cure for any of the ills of filial attachment.

"He got over it," Entreri corrected tonelessly, "over the thousands of years he spent in Vritra's stomach. When he fell into the frozen ground he ended up under Phosalais' altar. That's where he found the sword. I intend to return it."

"I see," Jarlaxle nodded. He had suspected that was why the assassin had headed back toward the shrine. It had been a matter of speculation between him and Kimmuriel when he'd passed along the veritable mountain of copper coins Ashrei had given him as reward money.

Smiling agreeably, Jarlaxle jumped off the altar, landing lightly on his hard-soled feet. He knocked back the remainder of his wine and slipped both wine bottle and glass into the pouch Entreri had returned to him. Hands free once again, he swept his multicolored cape off the altar in a theatrical flourish only he appreciated.

He took a leisurely stroll around the shrine, looking it over closely, even switching his eye patch from one eye to the other as he studied the granite slabs. "It all looks so very solid, Artemis. How does one return the sword?"

The assassin used the wrapped sword to indicate the urn sitting before the altar. "By pulling that up."

The urn, like everything else connected to the small shrine, was marble or granite. Carved from a single block of stone, it came up to their hips, the base long since buried under earth and the pervasive moss. They both knew that lifting it was a doubtful task even if they were to join forces again.

Jarlaxle looked at the urn for a long moment before commenting wryly, "Were you truly planning to lift that alone? Please tell me how."

For the second time, Entreri placed the coffee on the altar in order to free his left hand. He pointedly took hold of Charon's Claw. "I'm not convinced the urn has to remain in one piece."

The assassin's plan was rewarded with a roll of Jarlaxle's eyes. "Have you no regard for antiquity or even sacred—of course not. Someday, my friend, your loathing for deities is going to land you in trouble."

Entreri answered with a derisive snort, holding up the wrapped sword meaningfully. "We both know the gods are not immortal."

"Far more immortal than Artemis Entreri," the drow smirked in return. "And far more powerful."

"Fortune truly smiles on them," the assassin replied. His sarcasm was caustic enough to blister the most potently enchanted weapon's steel. "Are you going to lend a hand or not?"

Forcing down a face-splitting grin, the dark elf nodded. It seemed entirely possible that he and Entreri were recovering their nebulous little friendship.

When Entreri crouched beside the urn and placed the wrapped sword on the ground, Jarlaxle knelt with him. He was pleased to watch the assassin produce a hunting knife and begin to dig at the base of the huge incense urn.

"You're not lending that hand," Entreri remarked sourly, stabbing the earth in a blinding chain of overhand blows.

"I'll lift the urn after you excavate the base," the dark elf grinned.

"Your skin is too dark to show the dirt, if that's your fear."

"But my clothes are not; I fear staining them."

"They'd only benefit."

Jarlaxle's smile threatened to engulf his face; there was nothing he'd wanted to hear more than Entreri's side of their constant verbal contests. He dared hope they would leave the shrine with the bonds of friendship intact.

It took the assassin the better part of half an hour to uncover the base of the urn. The ground was rich black soil, but the base was buried deep. As he threw the last handful of dirt aside, Entreri glanced meaningfully at Jarlaxle. "I'm assuming you have a spell for your part."

The dark elf answered with a feather-bobbing nod. "Just so. And may I say how refreshing it is to see your hands clothed in black?"

"They'll be bathed in red," Entreri sighed, shaking his head slightly as he stood, "if you don't move that thing."

Jarlaxle chuckled and passed a slender hand over the urn and through the sinuous column of smoke the dark elven incense continued to emit. Whether through one of the mercenary's many new rings or his own innate power, the solid granite object responded. It shuddered with a chatter of stone against stone. The sound and discordant vibration caused both males to grit their teeth.

An abrasive reply echoed from the altar, though nothing touched the heavy object. Entreri retrieved Vritra and looked over the altar for whatever the noise bespoke. The slab of stone on the altar they had been using as a bench and table, and on which Entreri's coffee still rested, had moved askew.

Jarlaxle lowered the urn gently, setting one of his throwing knives beneath it to keep the ancient vessel from resuming its previous position prematurely. Meanwhile, the assassin surveyed the gap the slab of granite had given up. Over years of countless subtle games of thievery and murder, the assassin had gained an excellent eye for spatial measurements. It was a simple matter to gauge the possibility of sliding the sword into the altar. It would fit whether there was sufficient depth or not.

"The shrine's floor must be cracked," Jarlaxle remarked, "if Casteja managed to find the sword in the ground beneath here."

Entreri shook his head in reply. "I don't think there's a granite bottom to crack."

A thoughtful expression assembled itself on Jarlaxle's face. He took another look at the slender bundle in the assassin's gloved hand, entertained a last few thoughts of profits lost and gained, and finally sighed. He shrugged; a graceful roll of his shoulders the assassin marked well. "Throw the damn thing in before I have second thoughts, Artemis."

A hint of a quirk at the assassin's lips revealed the man's excuse for humor. "I wouldn't want you to have second thoughts after I kept you waiting."

"True!" Jarlaxle chuckled at the reference and paraphrased Entreri's earlier comment. "I'd hate to disappoint you."

The assassin snorted softly, but did not reply verbally. Without hesitation or ceremony, he slipped the powerful item between the two stone edges. The granite edges were so smooth they did not so much as tug at the sword's wrapping. He did not feel it touch bottom when it disappeared into the depths of the altar nor did he hear it hit anything after he let go.

A heavy thud told him Jarlaxle's throwing dagger had either disappeared or dissipated. He reasoned a covert glance would reveal the ingenious magical bracer back on the male's arm. A reprise of grating stone followed, upsetting nerves anew, but brought the assassin some peace of mind. He took a long step back from the altar's side; there was no further information to act on from the malevolent creature and he felt no responsibility to its disposal.

For a few seconds, the assassin closed his eyes and merely breathed. Scents of swamp decay, drow incense, and earthy coffee painted a sensory picture in his mind. When he opened his eyes again Jarlaxle was studying him closely.

"I felt the tension ease from five arm lengths away," the mercenary smiled in good nature. "You must be confident in this resting place."

Before Entreri could reply, there came a pronounced hush to the wood that failed to make him or Jarlaxle at home. The crickets and cicadas ceased their chirping and droning, the slight breeze flowing before no longer rustled the leaves or billowed the draped vegetation. Unsure of what the uncharacteristic stillness portended, the two of them glanced briefly at the altar. Loath to be trapped within the structure in an attack, the two raced out of the shrine and partway down the hill along the glowing line of rounded stone markers.

Using drow hand code, they quickly communicated their parts in a possible coming conflict with whatever Vritra had left to throw against them or whatever swamp beast they had disrupted. Whatever it was, they agreed, it had to be magical in nature to vastly affect their surroundings.

Both looked into the distance for the source of the magical quietness. The fireflies furthest away along the path were dousing their illumination in a wave of growing darkness. If not for the continued moonlight, the two would have been more unnerved.

The dousing of the fireflies came toward them. As the insects closest to them shut down their glow, they could see the small creatures descend slowly to find purchase on foliage and the moss-covered rocks closest to them. They did not evidence pain or distress or even confusion.

The source of the strange disturbance approached in a wide path along either side of the time-worn stones. Entreri and Jarlaxle made themselves ready to face the shrine's visitor. Charon's Claw scraped out of its scabbard in hungry anticipation while Jarlaxle's hand drifted to the bracer that held his limitless stock of throwing daggers.

A shudder ran rampant down Jarlaxle's spine when the wave of darkness washed over them. His ebony skin prickled in reaction to an eerie feeling that accompanied the dousing lights. Behind them in the altar the candles guttered and died, but no wind blew them out. The feeling was akin to the one he'd felt in the cell in Arrabar; the sense of observation that came with Vritra. Only the observation was not directed at him specifically. It was as if it looked over him in the same manner as a stray moonbeam might travel through a room as the moon tracked across the sky. It was mindless and impersonal and he had the distinct feeling he just happened to be in the way.

Entreri did not feel the eerie presence as acutely, though the fine hairs on the back of his neck raised in reaction. He recalled the strange haunting he'd experienced in the middle of the night and whipped his head to the side to verify a sudden suspicion. The fireflies off the hill behind them were unaffected. The presence had followed the ancient path, enveloped the strange hill and moved no further.

It reminded him strongly of Jaka's mention of haunted moments. No wonder there were no inhabitants on the hill; the place truly was haunted. Haunted by the destruction of a god, not the deity itself.

No sooner had Entreri reached his conclusion before he heard the swamp's customary raucous noise resume from the direction the sensation had first appeared. The resumption of noise could be tracked visibly by the return of the fireflies' soft glow. It was just as otherworldly to see the wave of light and hear the swamp's roar approach along the path of stones as it had been when they had ceased.

The eerie sensation pressing in on the two did not lift until a soft breeze flowed over them. Behind the air movement, fireflies took wing and the frogs at the base of the hill resumed their spring peeping. The two watched light return around the shrine; only the candles did not regain their glow.

By wordless agreement, they sheathed their weapons and walked back up to the shrine. It did not feel strange to Entreri and Jarlaxle's dark elven sensitivities only registered the normal eeriness that shrouded the hill like the vegetation draping from the tree branches.

"A moment that spans all time," Jarlaxle mused, relighting the candles and then the incense. "I wouldn't like to experience that again."

Entreri exhaled slowly in agreement and finally took the coffee by his own initiative. He raised the earthenware vessel to his lips and took what he expected to be a steadying drink. He nearly spat it out; not only was it lukewarm, it was the disgusting brew out of Iljak. Throwing Jarlaxle a look of disgust, he set the vessel back on the altar with resolute strength. "Didn't I tell you that stuff was vile?"

Smugness exuded from the dark elf's every pore; his visible eye crinkled at the corner. "I didn't like it even when I added honey and alcohol."

The assassin snorted in revulsion and threw the contents of the cup out over his shoulder. It splashed audibly on the ground outside the shrine. "Are you saying you met up with those centaurs and chased them down with a set of floral pillow sheets?"

"With elven tatting," Jarlaxle reminded, his mirth growing all the more hearty. "No, but I was tempted to get a sample from the horses that lovely ranger returned for you. I stopped by Iljak after I provided Ashrei a contact that can supply Inyol an arm."

"Somebody on Bregan D'aerthe's dole, I assume," the assassin nodded. He tossed the coffee cup at the mercenary with perfect disdain.

"Naturally," Jarlaxle agreed. He caught the cup and shook the last drops of dark liquid from inside. "It seems our mercenary friends relieved the equally lovely, but cold-hearted, horse merchant of your deposit."

There was a tidbit of information Entreri hadn't wanted to share with the dark elf. Gray eyes met a singular crimson one in silent indication that he knew where the conversation was leading. Jarlaxle was not to be deterred and forged on regardless.

"And it was quite a sizeable amount, too," Jarlaxle sighed in a theatrical approximation of sympathy. "Making you a much poorer man than when we started out."

"Which is why you'll be handing over my share of the reward money," Entreri replied flatly.

"And I have every intention of doing so, my good man," the mercenary nodded, his diatryma feather nodding along with him. "Except you have no way of holding the amount of coin she gave me."

The assassin's eyes darkened with suspicion. "She paid you in coin? Do you have two of those handy bags of holding?"

"Perhaps," Jarlaxle shrugged, his smile edging back onto his face. "But give my contacts back in Menzoberranzan time to convert the funds into more manageable currency. It shouldn't be many more days; Kimmuriel employs accountants that are excellent at shuffling money, even bizarre amounts of copper with surface stamping."

They were finally at the point of the conversation Entreri had foreseen. Shaking his head ruefully, he began to walk away from the shrine, staying to the right of the weathered stones. "He probably ensures their loyalty with mind scans. Fine then, I see I'm not easily rid of you."

He heard the pleasant chuckle and the obvious clunk of hard boot heels behind him as Jarlaxle followed. The mercenary caught up easily, placing the cup into the black velvet bag as they walked down to the soupy swamp water.

"Are we returning to Iljak?" Jarlaxle inquired when Entreri stepped into the dark water at the base of the hill.

"That's my plan," the assassin replied. "Do you have a better idea?"

"I always have better ideas, Artemis," Jarlaxle grinned. "But this time, I yield to your direction."

"Your best idea yet."

The dark elf laughed freely, but did not reply. He would never admit it, but regaining what passed for normal between them was pleasantly comfortable. He had no illusions that he would continue to get on the assassin's nerves, for that was half the fun of their friendship. Sacrificing a few secrets seemed a reasonable price to pay to keep it.

Since a boy of fourteen meager years, Entreri never hesitated to murder those who dared betray him, whether through premeditation or accident. He recognized the change, but did not dwell on it; Vritra had disturbed too many buried things for him to make immediate sense of his feelings or motivations. More shocking than a decision to overlook Jarlaxle's treachery was the half-decided notion to think about addressing the disturbing weaknesses the hideous creature had used against him.

Not long before they had arrived in Chondath, Jarlaxle had accused the assassin of personal growth. He supposed it was true enough, but now it was mutual.

---

_Deep within the slick confines of warm, pulsing flesh, he joined the entity that stared eternally over his shoulder as it started the imagery again. The dream began with a scene of a woman limned in death and an embryo ensconced within a rich bed of blood. _

_He knew what was coming; an indeterminate amount of time over which the embryo would grow and eventually come into a surprising world. He knew the babe, the boy, and the man. Whenever he looked into a reflective surface, there would be bright blue eyes staring back, quite unlike the glazed amber eye that gazed with him._

_When the familiar sights were too much for him, his eyes opened onto the cavernous scene of flesh; just like the inside of a gigantic dog's stomach. Saliva dripped in a long strong stream from his chin when he lifted it off his chest. Below his stomach, he saw his body sheathed to his naked hips in foreign tissue. To his right, his arm was bicep-deep in more pink flesh. On his left tendrils vaguely reminiscent of animate intestines dove in and out of raw muscles that hung loosely from what remained of his shoulder. _

_He had dreamt of a lost arm, but he recalled losing more than what was hanging from his shoulder. Was the dream, then, the reality? Or could fantasies wound?_

_An absent smile tasted like mucus, but that wasn't unfamiliar. A fleshy coil came up to feel the contours of hard teeth. When his lips covered his teeth again, the appendage slid over his face and past his ear to grasp and gently pull at long strands of dark hair. Viscous liquid trailed from each point referenced._

"_This is not my mother's womb. These dreams are the life I have lived."_

_The man found it comforting to know that he had once existed. Perhaps he would exist again after observing his life another thousand times. It would be a long wait, but he was as patient as the entity that held him._

* * *

In lieu of the price of a digital or paperback book, please leave a comment/review. I have no idea if even 90 percent of my readership found this story pleasantly challenging, somewhat transparent, or confusing. All I know is over a hundred people read it. I hope you enjoyed it! 


	16. cut scenes

People who deserve extra special thanks (no particular order):

Witchwolf, for pimping my fics and giving me those sick book report reviews.  
Ariel, for proofreading some of my chapters and providing me a list of Jarlaxle's items.  
Rezuri, Hannah, and Karei for art.  
Thanks also to Alzadea, Lord Onisyr, Lessiehanamoray, and Neven, for reviewing, cheerleading, providing me info, and/or generally giving me some of your time.

_devil takes hindmost_ started out as 'What would happen if Entreri stabbed himself with his dagger?' It was supposed to be six chapters at the most and then, like a virulent cancer, it spread like crazy.

If I added a list of sources I had to draw on for this fic, it would take up its own chapter, too. Part of what made this fic what it is was Thomas X. Hammes, Colonel USMC's book, _The Sling and the Stone: on war in the 21st century_. Casteja grew out of a desire to make sure I understood Hammes' concept of fourth generation war (4GW) through application in fiction. I especially took note of Mao and the Vietnamese modifications to those tactics.

The other book of great help was _Extreme Encounters_ by Greg Emmanuel. If you want accounts of animals attacks, dangerous weather, crime and punishment, normal mishaps, and other bizarre ways to die or just experience horrendous pain, go no further.

* * *

_(Cut from the end of chapter one, when Jarlaxle leaves Entreri to supposedly get a breath of 'fresh' air.)_

Deep into the shadows of Iljak's nights went the dark elf. He was no less suited to the darkness than his assassin friend, though Entreri was now much harder to pick out of even the shallowest of shadowed depths. In their inn's black alley, Jarlaxle found the contact he'd mentioned meeting.

The drow psionicist stood within the alley, sneering disdainfully at the filth and scurrying rats. When he saw Jarlaxle's unmistakable figure enter the alley, he sighed in open irritation. "We could have met further from the stench of the city."

A smirk answered the statement, telling the disgusted dark elf that Jarlaxle had wished the meeting there simply because he enjoyed irritating him. "Entreri wished me to give you his greetings."

Kimmuriel's frown deepened at the statement. There was no love lost between the two; he hated the human at least as much as the human hated him. "How nice. Have you found him a woman, yet?"

At this Jarlaxle seemed to choke slightly, whether in amusement or actual horror, it was hard to say. The mercenary, ever preferring to remain mysterious and unpredictable, ignored the question and made his immediate request known. "I think I will need to borrow the Agrach-Dyrr boy for a day."

Fine white eyebrows lifted in the darkness before lowering in reserved suspicion. "You know I have been too busy to train him properly."

"I'm not yet certain I'll need him for that," Jarlaxle replied lazily. "Right now I'm more interested in his conventional skills; this place is damnably humid and the terrain is going to be very inhospitable."

Kimmuriel couldn't resist an evil smirk. "You may be interested in his conventional skills, but he won't be interested in helping you in that regard."

Jarlaxle shrugged. "Too bad for him. Find a way to get him out of his House."

"That won't be easy. Nor has he ever been to the surface."

"Impart your experience to him, then."

---

_(From the measuring scene in chapter two.)_

Against his personal desire to split the youth in two, Entreri stripped off his shirt and tossed it onto one of the bed posts. It took little time for the dark elf to take measurements from his from his bare torso to his hips, which the lad found unerringly even through Entreri's belted and strapped leathers. His touch was impersonal as he spanned the assassin's chest with the cord and turned his attention to the circumference of his arms. (turns to Jarlaxle)

The same measurements were taken, in nearly the same amount of time, but for a slight hesitation when the tailor began measuring Jarlaxle's back. Entreri had a hand on his dagger, watching the suddenly frozen Jaka as he paused in his measurements. The unarmed drow's lips drew back over jet black teeth in a slight hiss. "No scars…"

Jarlaxle responded with a wicked smile, "There are some things I've rightly earned that I don't want to keep. So, what would you use it for?"

A vague look of surprise widened the lad's yellow eyes for a moment, but then he turned back to his measuring cord and continued as if there had been no interruption. The only indication of the event or Jarlaxle's question was the lad's jaw becoming tight, as if his teeth were clamped together with great force. (Jarlaxle's question is a reference to his knowledge that Jaka has worked drow skin.)

---

_(From chapter four, when Jarlaxle gets his portable hole back.)_

Unfortunately for Jarlaxle, one of Vektch's men knew the secret to the pit. He leaned over and hooked his finger into the hole, picking it up and returning it to its original size. The man chuckled as he glanced at the dark elf. "I'm assuming this is yours, black elf?"

Jarlaxle nodded amiably and stretched forth his hand to take it from the fair-haired soldier. "Yes, my friend. If you are finished with it…?"

The man considered the circle of black fabric, leaving no one in doubt of his train of thought. He rolled it up and began to tuck it into a belt pouch when he paused and reversed his decision. The disc was dropped into Jarlaxle's hand. "With your kind's reputation, I prefer not to waste time looking over my shoulder," he explained needlessly. "That said, if we see you again we will not hesitate to slay you."

The dark elf looked wounded, but took the item back casually. "After your fellows put a hole through my hat, you have the indecency to threaten my life? Ah, the life of Drizzt Do'urden is fraught with turmoil and misunderstandings."

Entreri was taken with the urge to gouge his partner's eyes out with the mention of that annoying ranger. He had to put up with it far too often. It never worked, it always reminded him of the insufferable drow, and it was far beyond old.

However, it actually sparked a look of recognition from the man. "You're Do'urden?"

Both Entreri and Jarlaxle were equally shocked, but sublimated their reactions with the skill that came with a lifetime of subterfuge. "Ah, so you have heard of me? I must admit, I had no idea those merchants were affiliated with that black-hearted villain, Wianar!"

The assassin refrained from rolling his eyes when he recalled Jarlaxle had used the same insult to describe Vektch when they had first seen the wanted posting in Iljak. The soldier stared at Jarlaxle for a moment, clearly unconvinced. "I thought you had a panther… and I pictured you with more hair."

---

_(From chapter four, when Jaka arrives to help track)_

The moment the (_Kim's_) portal disappeared, Jarlaxle tossed his outrageously plumed hat toward the black haired drow. Jaka raised his head, yellow eyes following the object's quick progress, but he hesitated. Entreri watched, wondering if the lad was considering sidestepping the eyesore. At the last moment, just as it was about to sail into the brush, a black hand plucked it from the air.

"It has a hole," Jarlaxle sighed sadly, as dramatic as ever. He spoke in the Common tongue for Entreri's benefit, though the assassin was proficient in the drow language. "Can you fix it?"

The young drow nodded absently, giving Entreri the answer he had not desired. "I can."

The colorful mercenary grinned hugely at this response; he didn't want to endure rain or shine with a hole in his trademark hat. "Wonderful! As soon as we locate cover from the impending rain, you can patch it up."

Shaking his head, Entreri turned away from the two to locate the cover Jarlaxle had mentioned. Traveling with one drow was bad enough, traveling with two was worse, especially if the new drow was going to collaborate with the first one.

"A misunderstanding," the tailor spoke from behind, his Common nowhere near as eloquent as his native language for all it was oddly accented. "I can fix this, but I won't."

Entreri and Jarlaxle turned as one to stare at the slim figure bringing up the rear while watching where he placed his nimble feet. He was holding the famous hat's brim in both hands as he followed, a vaguely curious expression on his face as he watched the grass he was crushing underfoot. Entreri had the distinct impression the lad didn't find his refusal something to be concerned about. A wicked gleam appeared in his dark eyes as he looked at Jarlaxle's reaction.

"You won't?" Jarlaxle asked switching to drow again. He was uncertain he had heard Jaka correctly or that Jaka had understood him. The refusal was at odds with the exceedingly respectful treatment he had been enjoying. "Why is that?"

The lad caught up with the two and handed the hat back to Jarlaxle with both hands. He looked up slightly through locks of hair as black as Entreri's, though his attitude remained the pinnacle of courteousness. "I won't be associated with something like that."

A short, harsh laugh ripped from Entreri's chest at the lad's refusal and Jarlaxle's subsequent look of shock. He reevaluated his opinion of the strange drow after all.

---

_(Written on a 2AM lark while working on chapter seven. This was a reaction to my undeleted 'Don't forget insects!' note. That note hung around at the foot of my cursor until the end of chapter ten. This never took place and was written out-of-continuity. I provided a link for it on my profile page when I posted it at my short-entry writing journal.)_

_the leach that broke the dark elf's back_

The heat had not abated, the humidity had doubled, and the insect population density within the swamp was thicker than the proverbial flies on shit. Entreri was not as afflicted by the bloodsuckers as his drow cohorts, but he attributed this directly to the amount of skin they were revealing to help cool their bodies.

They trudged on through the swamp's murky water, with Jaka stopping once and a while to pick the occasional lotus or iris and crush their petals into a white cloth; inspecting them for colorfastness, but also pausing to inhale their exotic scents. Entreri and Jarlaxle would have found these moments of curiosity more amusing, but slogging through scalding humidity and buzzing mosquitoes didn't do much for improving their attitudes.

All at once, Jarlaxle stopped in his tracks, ankle deep in mud, waist deep in water. Jaka, attention consumed with a luridly green spider in one of his decapitated lotus, nearly ran right into the former mercenary leader. He pulled up short just in time, but was confused by the odd expression on the older male's face.

Colorful Jarlaxle, whose obnoxiously buoyant diatryma feather seemed to wilt with the weather, seemed to be struggling with a sudden realization of some kind. Both Entreri and Jaka observed him in silent interest as the male's brow furrowed in strained concentration.

Slowly, the dark elf rose out of the water on the wings of his innate powers of levitation. He had barely cleared the water when he ripped off his belt and threw it at Jaka, who dropped the lotus and caught the belt in one hand and one of the pouches it held in the other. Nobody noticed how round his yellow eyes became as his gaze dropped down to the water and beheld the sinking flower, green passenger still on board.

No, Entreri was more concerned with Jarlaxle, who had hooked his thumbs in the left side of his skintight, low slung pants, available eye wide and slightly crazed. Flipping down two inches of material on his left flank, the male revealed the source of his disturbance. Laying flat against his skin, black on black, was a fully mature and increasingly engorged leach of magnificent proportions.

Jaka, who had closed his eyes for a moment to beg Lolth's forgiveness, was not aware of the creature sucking his superior's life blood until a strained command hit him from the older male's direction. "Jaka. Is there anyone in the area, say, for a mile or so around?"

It was a question that Entreri could not immediately connect to the situation as he began to chuckle under his breath at the strained look on his partner's angular face. Mosquitoes, biting flies, and now a leach; obviously Jarlaxle was popular with more than just the ladies (and the occasional admiring male) that weren't offended by his skin color.

Confused, but obedient, Jaka found his center and concentrated on answering the question. He found very little of interest to comment on. "Nothing more than alligators and the like."

Nodding sagely at this confirmation, Jarlaxle sighed and then took a deep, steadying breath. And, from the midst of the cloud of biting and stinging insects, with one (of possibly many) leach happily pumping drow blood down its gullet, Jarlaxle tilted his head back just a bit.

Birds of every color and description exploded from the area and through the canopy in response to the full throated scream of primal annoyance and frustration that issued from a constricted throat.

---

_(The biggest chunk cut from chapter six. It minimized Casteja's in-person appearance and I suddenly realized that neither Entreri nor Jarlaxle would tag along mentally with Jaka to experience it. Still, it is kind of entertaining and you get to meet Tan's wife. The letter mentioned at the end was going to be sent to Ashrei.)_

(Where is Vritra? Chained?)

The impression of Casteja was very strong in close quarters, especially as he was smeared with mud over one side of his body, even over his shoulder. The man's face was caught up in an expression of exasperation and pain. He was leaning heavily on his right leg while a hardened Chondathan soldier dug her fingers into his left leg.

"Good god! Just tell me the problem and stop touching the rotten thing!" His pain hazed focus settled on Tan with no small amount of relief. "Tell me you have a prayer for me, Tan; your wife is trying to cripple me."

Tan shook his head, "I do the moment you get rid of that sword. You should have kept one of those potions for yourself; if you can't get through to Narbeli, a bad leg is the least of our problems."

"My decision on those potions is irrevocable." The dark haired man snorted in derision and looked down his leg at the soldier still examining his leg. "Lassel, just tell me the damage."

The woman looked up, meeting Casteja's eyes. "Broken. Without Tan's prayer or one of those potions he took from Ashrei, you won't be walking. Either way, it needs to be set."

The leader of the insurgency frowned darkly and nodded. "That's all I needed to hear. Retrieve whatever you need to splint it and come back."

Lassel stood slowly, cleaning her hands off on a rag tucked through her sword belt. "Forget your ankle, sir, and concentrate on Narbeli. You've come back after worse set backs."

Casteja nodded, looking just a little impatient. "Go, and get me word from your scouts about the outflanking maneuver. If she's going to torch farmers, bring in a Thay wizard, and venture in Chondalwood, there's no telling what she'll do next. She thinks massing so many of our forces like this means this is a headquarters and this is her best chance to wipe us out. She doesn't know that we are temporarily unable to retreat past the swamp."

The woman nodded and walked out, while Tan and Casteja sized each other up behind her back. After a moment, Casteja rolled his eyes. "It hurts less than I'm letting on."

"You look like one of the hells chewed you up and spat you out once the taste registered," Tan replied, not losing his dry demeanor. Vektch had the decency to laugh at the statement.

"There's too much going on right now for jokes," Casteja chuckled. "Has the Sespech representative been evacuated? I don't want her around if I'm talking to a black elf and an assassin; she wouldn't be very impressed. I want those horses she mentioned last month."

The cleric nodded. "I don't think the Baron would really care, but she might. She's gone, at any rate, so there's no fear of her seeing a dark elf or assassin."

"What did you think of them?"

"I think the assassin is the one of the two to be wary of," Tan remarked bluntly. "He didn't utter a single word or offer a clue. But his manner was telling and his eyes desolate. In complete contrast, the drow was obnoxiously theatrical."

(connect)

"Tan, you didn't bless any of those fields, did you? I can free up a whole division to help bring in the crops if you can provide them scythe and sickle to do so," the man continued, speaking rapidly, "but after we get out of here. I want you to stay to ask Chauntea's blessing then."

"Understood," Tan replied, walking to one end of the room to pick up a pitcher of water and heading back.

"I've already sent out orders for a complete scattering of our forces. Two different plans depending on whether I regain Narbeli's support or not. In any case, all the troops know where they will eventually be reassigned. I need them to remain in areas they are familiar with; the locals sympathize with us more that way."

The cleric nodded, "Understood." He came near Vektch and began pouring the water over his muddy shoulder. The man seemed totally unsurprised by the behavior and responded by working the worst of the mud off his arms and torso. The activity did not slow Casteja down in the least.

"As usual, the troops are instructed to raid Ashrei's supply lines. If they have no alternatives, it is acceptable to take what they need from the farming communities as long as they pay them with labor." The injured man stopped and stared straight at Tan again, a smile coming across his handsome, if scarred, face. "She used one of those Thay wizards on us. I really thought she was more patient than this, but she obviously feels that killing me or capturing me here is her best bet."

Tan paused with the pitcher of water. "She's right, Casteja. You've done an excellent job of networking this insurgency, but you remain the best suited for running it. Lassel and I are not as skilled in managing all the other parts of the conflict."

"Rot," Casteja shrugged, "they don't need either of you. They can continue on without any one of us. So, even if we do get killed or taken out, this revolution won't end until Eles is dead or over in Thay with a bridle over his head and a bit in his mouth." (And a tail up his ass? Would he say that? Maybe.)

"But living through the war is always good," Tan remarked dryly.

"Well, yes, there is that," Casteja smirked.

(Narbeli barges in, Tan leaves. Blah de blah blah)

"Wianar's general is the one hurting the wood, not us."

"But who chooses to run into the wood, thus leading that general to harm it?"

"We had permission to retreat into the wood."

"Now you don't!"

"I know! And now all my people are being slaughtered by that woman and her lunatic slaver!"

"Casteja, I'll take you into the wood alone."

"I'd rather die here with my soldiers than carry the guilt of abandoning them and my responsibilities to them! I got them into this."

"Damn you Casteja Vektch! Don't hold yourself hostage! You're just using the wood, you don't care about it!"

"If I win this war, I can grant Chondalwood greater protection. Besides, you know I don't want to anger the Emerald Coalition. We all know it is Wianar's people that want to log the wood. I have the Coalition's permission to be here. How do I know you aren't just punishing me for that _(NC-17 rated)_ letter?"

She flew at him suddenly (because of his leg, he falls quickly, swearing. She finally notices his state.) "You ass, this is not what this is about. This is not a lovers' quarrel. I never expected some kind of life oath, not from a human. You can mate with whomever you like, just as I do. Attraction is natural, sex natural. The problem is that you have encroached on my goodwill and influence."

(she agrees to let them have access one last time for the period of a week, but he'll never be welcomed back until he wins and oaths are made. he doesn't know Narbeli's already fucked him over)

---

_(Cut from seven, because I already had too much pretty setting stuff; I changed it and cannibalized it for the epilogue. I gave part of this setting to Ariel.)_

There came a pronounced hush to the wood that failed to make Entreri or Jarlaxle at home. The crickets and early cicadas ceased their chirping and droning, the slight breeze flowing before no longer rustled the leaves or billowed the draping moss. Unsure of what the uncharacteristic stillness portended, the three of them made quick progress up the hill to more stable footing.

Using drow hand code, they quickly communicated their parts in a possible coming conflict with some swamp beast. Whatever it was, they agreed, it had to be magical in nature to affect even their surroundings.

A slight hitch in Jaka's breathing alerted the other two to the next incident. Both looked behind in the lad's direction only to see the fireflies furthest away dousing their illumination in a wave of growing darkness. If not for the continued moonlight, the small group might have been more unnerved.

The dousing of the fireflies came toward them. As the fireflies closest to them shut down their glow, they could see the small creatures descend slowly to find purchase on foliage and moss covered rocks closest to them. They did not evidence pain or distress or even confusion, though the three males felt a wave of cool air come along with the darkness.

Certain that the source of the strange disturbance was approaching from back the way they came...

---

_(I managed to plan things properly for several chapters. This next bit would have been from chapter fourteen. This was my original plan, but after explaining it to my sensitive roommate while I was typing out chapter ten, she insisted it was too sad an ending.)_

"Don't touch it!" Casteja howled at the boy. His right hand was clutching the open wound where his arm used to be, blood pumped hard and fast between his fingers and dyed his pale shirt bright, shiny red.

The command only spurred the boy on. He grasped the hilt in two hands and sneered ferally at the wrecked man before he took the first step toward his mother. The second step never came. Kiretheo's childish features contorted first in shock and then in fear. His blue-green eyes fixed on the blade and the eye that was flaring to life near his slender fingers. The boy tried to drop it and when he could not, he looked to his mother.

Ashrei's citrine eyes grew very wide, her lips pulled over her teeth in a snarl. Casteja forgotten, she rushed at her son, muscles propelling her unlike before.

But the damage was done. The boy seemed to simply disintegrate more descript In his place a curled and grotesque creature slumped to the floor, its once magnificent garments in tatters. It was an illithid and it looked mostly dead, but staring up from the back of the revolting creature's ugly hand was the sword, orange eye glaring and malevolent. In a home of illithid flesh it looked far more normal, though equally alien as the creature itself.

(Kiretheo is taken, Ashrei kills comatose illithid, Casteja's soft spot spurs him to pick up Vritra, Kiretheo out and Casteja in. Ashrei hesitantly triumphant. Business as usual; Entreri lops off Kiretheo's arm (Ashrei goes nuts). Picks up sword with gauntlet hand. Exit our hero, stage left. Phosealis' shrine to drop off Vritra.)

---

_(This was chopped out of the epilogue. I wrote this scene specifically for Rezuri and, to a lesser extent, WitchWolf (who loves Kimmuriel). Unfortunately, it didn't work. I now know I should have cut all mention of it from the epilogue.)_

As hard as sleep was to come by, he came instantly awake the moment he felt a gaze upon him. He was certain he'd only been asleep a few hours when the feeling swept over him. Instinctually, his gloved hand tightened on Vritra, and his opposite on Charon's Claw. The droning cicadas, locusts, and crickets made a wall of noise that crushed other sounds far below normal hearing. And Entreri's hearing, though sharp for a human, was still only that of a human. There was nothing to hear beneath the cover of insect droning.

Carefully, he opened his eyes just enough to peer furtively through the blur of his black lashes. Thanks to the moving light the fireflies provided under the trees' heavy canopy and the vision provided to him by the shade, he could see his watcher fairly well.

There was a humanoid shape directly before him, crouched, but with black hands held empty and to the sides. Whoever it was wasn't really working to surprise him, but that alone was startling to an assassin that had become inured to the prospect of legions of angry people wanting him torn apart and fed to dogs.

It took less than a heartbeat for him to bring Charon's Claw out of the scabbard and thrust it into the figure's hypothetical face. Yellow eyes shone vaguely, reflecting the moving lights all around them.

"Take off my shirt."

Entreri knew the voice and he was struck by what the subdued drow really wanted. "You're not my type, Mi'iduor."

If the lad's eyes could only look more blank if he was dead. He shifted back in his crouch and lifted his elbows and rested them on his bent knees. "Not the shirt I'm wearing, the shirt _you_ are wearing," the dark elf said quietly, firmly. "I was never paid for the material or the tailoring."

"It didn't protect me anyway," Entreri snorted, but made no move to comply with the dark elf's command. "It let a dagger through."

The lad's yellow eyes narrowed, but his expression didn't grow malevolent only slightly intrigued. "Magical?"

The assassin nodded.

"Must be strong magic," Jaka commented. "Was it undead in nature? The bone needles I use to work that cloth were blessed by a cleric of Kiaransalee."

"Is that the only reason you're here?" The assassin asked bluntly. "To retrieve your handiwork? Did Jarlaxle send you?"

The boy shook his head. "I'm here at great cost because I want the material back. There is no other reason. I have not seen Jarlaxle."

"And to whom are you paying this great cost?" The assassin rose slowly to his feet, keeping Charon's Claw at the youth's face. Jaka was a hard drow to read, but he knew he could rely on him to be as deceptive as any other. If Kimmuriel was his master, it stood to reason that he was learning the art of the deception from one of the best.

"Nobody you know," the male stated, "it is enough that he has what is left of this cloth's dye lot. As long as you keep this material, you can always be found. There is benefit to be had if Jarlaxle retains the garment, whether he pays or not, but you have no sway or use in Menzoberranzan."

Entreri snorted in sarcastic humor. Jarlaxle had likely known the material was traceable; it was probably set up in that way just to cover all possibilities. The bastard. If that was the case, he actually had a good reason to get rid of the shirt. Then again, perhaps Jaka was lying to him about tracking it just to get it back. The assassin really didn't want to face sweltering Chondalwood in his leathers. It would be nice if the male's eye would give him away, but few faces were ever as inexpressive as the one before him.

"Even if you can track this material," Entreri, finally said, his voice even as he looked down at the crouching dark elf, "I'm not convinced that really concerns me. You've stated before that you know you can't kill me and, moreover, Jarlaxle would not be pleased if you did."

Glancing up through locks of shiny black hair, Jaka was equally even with his reply. "I do not sense Jarlaxle anywhere in the area and Master Kimmuriel has never, to my knowledge, liked you."

Not offended by the threat, Entreri only raised an eyebrow, while his habitual sneer pulled at his mouth. "All this trouble for a bit of material, Mi'iduor? It must be more important than you're letting on."

A hint of obsidian tooth reflected the green light of a stray firefly as the male betrayed a sign of nervousness just as he had the week prior when he'd forgotten to mention Casteja and Ashrei's conflict not fifty miles away from Entreri's current camp. He was biting his black lip. The assassin was wary, but he took the movement for a sign of victory.

"If you want the shirt," he relented, "I'll trade it to you for information."

Jaka's head tilted to one side in curiosity his face did not show. "About mind magic? I'm sure I know nothing else of importance to you."

The assassin didn't waste breath disagreeing; there were plenty things he could think of asking about Kimmuriel and Jarlaxle that he was reasonably certain the psionicist could answer. For the time being, though, Jaka was mostly correct.

Instead, he asked, "Are you fully recovered from Vritra?"

The profound stillness that swept over the boy was proof enough that sometimes a lack of reaction was a reaction in itself. The yellow eyes did not blink, nor did his black hands twitch, only the deceptive travel of firefly light over his body gave him any sort of illusion of movement. At last, his lips moved. "As much as I need to be."

Entreri was smart enough to know the boy's answer meant 'no'. "How far back did it go before we got the ward on you?"

Moving slowly, Jaka rose to his feet, Charon's Claw always tracking his face. The male's left hand was pressed against his chest, where Entreri assumed his bizarre drow skin pendant would hang; that was another answer in itself. The male took a step back from the assassin. "Far."

The line of questioning was having the effect Entreri had assumed it would. It would not have been pleasant if their roles were reversed, but even when the assassin had empathy for an opponent, it never translated into mercy. Fortunately for Jaka, he only had one more question.

Charon's Claw was swept back into its scabbard so Entreri could manage to pull off the black shirt. It was an affair he had perfected over the last few days; dressing and undressing while keeping Vritra almost constantly in his gloved grip.

The sight arrested Jaka's abbreviated retreat. Cautiously, the male regained footing he had given up a moment prior. He reached out to take the garment, but Entreri did not offer it. "Did your mother have any sort of identifying feature?"

The question didn't make the male as uncomfortable as Entreri had thought. If anything, his muscles seemed to ease into a more relaxed definition. "She had full lips, very well shaped; always glossed with venom. Their beauty led many drow to disadvantage and defeat."

A flick of his wrist and the black material was transferred from the assassin's tough tan hand to the smooth black hands of the psionicist. Jaka brought it quickly before his eyes while running his fingers over the puncture Entreri's dagger had made before making his verdict. "Mendable."

Neither of them made any other attempt to communicate. That was something Entreri could appreciate about the young male from the Underdark's volcanic reaches; he didn't waste words. He wasn't like loquacious Jarlaxle at all. What he didn't appreciate was the lack of nod or bow when Jaka began to back away; the lad never failed to give that small token of respect to Jarlaxle, even when the flashy bastard had told him not to bother.

The thin black figure stepped back from the assassin and put the nearest tree between them in order to make his wordless, if not soundless, retreat. It was not hard for Entreri to disappear into the thick shadows in order to follow the dark elf. He didn't need the droning insects to cover his steps. He was hushed as darkness. He didn't worry about the lad's weak infravision, with Charon's Claw in his hand, he was invisible to heat sensing eyes. Nor did he even worry about being traced by the lad's psionics; Vritra was ever in his hand.

The only care was the expanse of skin against the darkness, for without the shirt, there was an ample amount open to the night air. Of course, Entreri had learned long ago to move in the deepest shadows, to wear them as a cloak. The shade attributes his dagger had fed him not so long ago made this task even easier for the master assassin. He moved along with the dark elf; hushed as darkness, black as death.

The sight that greeted his iron colored eyes caused him to swear violently under his breath.

A small portal of absolute blackness awaited Jaka and an even more familiar voice came from within the void as the lad stepped into it. "Biting your lip remains an effective ploy, Jakadirek, but don't expect it to work on creatures of any intelligence."

Kimmuriel Oblodra was very fortunate Entreri's hands were filled with two swords he did not want to lose in a throw. The man let go of Charon's Claw to seize a dagger to sling into the portal before it snapped shut without a trace, but even his movements could not outpace the speed of thought. The portal ceased to exist as Entreri's fingers clawed around the dagger's hilt.

Yes, the young psionicist was trained in deception by one of the most deceptive and difficult drow Entreri knew. He was reminded that his hatred of dark elves was not racist, but merely pragmatic.

---

_(Yet more cut out of the epilogue. I was trying to illustrate what little Entreri would say by segueing into the memory. It flowed perfectly, sure, but it took focus off Entreri and Jarlaxle. It hurt to cut this scene.)_

Entreri wasn't inclined to delve into the memories he'd received from Vritra. With Casteja gone and little chance of having to deal with Jaka again, there was no reason to do so. He thought back anyway, to the vague image of a gray morning thousands of years past.

It happened in autumn; the smell of leaves, frost, and broken flesh permeated the air. Cloud cover was thick across the land and sky, turning the battlefield into a dream already dressed for remembrances. Casteja had thought the red of blood very vibrant in the gray atmosphere, especially the steaming blood pouring steadily from the wound in his gray-clad thigh.

The feeling of his staggering steps was strong. Every move was jarring as he ran toward the only area on the battlefield where the trees had not been ripped apart or smoldering: Phosealis' grove. It was off limits to all, known to be cursed with an awful geas of divine proportions. It was safe from catapult, ballista, and cannon.

As far as Casteja knew, there was only one person that could enter the shrine safely and that was the one man that still paid tribute to the shrine's lost nature deity.

Both sides of the military action had decimated the other as he knew they would. Chaos had ripped through the land as a result, but still the revolution roiled and raged. Other countries were making bloody inroads into the land of his birth. Mercenaries and bandits were running roughshod through the ruined cities. Decadent and prideful, neither government nor revolutionary would call truce long enough to fend off the outside threats.

Heavy impacts were shaking the ground right behind Casteja; the ground obliterating gallop of a war horse's heavy hooves. All his soldiers were gone, all his plans annihilated, he ran for the shrine for his life, his face bathed continuously in every frozen breath that heaved through his nose and lips. He did not want to die. Only twenty-four years old, he still had plans to lay and things to prove. Or plans to prove and things to lay.

The footing across the field was treacherous. Torn and ravaged by war machine, cavalry, and footman alike, and then frozen in the night, the ground was a foreign landscape of tortured earth. It came as almost an amusing realization when the young man's foot skidded across an ice-filled gouge. He went down grinning; once a high ranking officer, demoted to lowly foot soldier running for his life, and destined to die pounded into the warped earth by an animal.

But the horse sailed over him as he desperately tried to roll to the side to avoid what damage he could. He did not pause to thank fortune, but quickly came to his knees, his pistol still firmly in hand. He pulled back one of the two hammers and sighted down the ornate barrel, with every intention of taking his enemy's head off and trying to steal the massive gray steed.

A mass of dark ringlets crowning a laughing pale face and bright blue eyes met his aim. Did she never age? She was beautiful even with her battered armor and bloody lips.

"Rot, woman! _Must you?_"

She remained grinning. "I must! We switched sides this morning."

He couldn't help but laugh, her band of wolfish mercenaries had switched sides three times in the last week depending on the flow of coin and with no regard for the size of the force they were against.

Using knees alone, she guided the horse over to him and leaned down to ruffle his black hair. "You're a better commander than a grunt, boy. Did your father run out of money for your commission? I have plenty if you want to be an officer again."

"I'll use it to buy my life from you, lady," he smiled, getting to his feet. "Would you mind terribly taking me prisoner?"

She made a show of thinking about his request before shaking her head. "We were told to take no prisoners, handsome stranger. Truly it is a loss, for one of my sisters-in-arms would give me her armills if I'd be your pimp. Besides, you're too old to have a babysitter."

"Maybe I'd enjoy you playing my pimp, as long as you've no plans to beat me and take my money. I shan't weigh you down, Mother."

"Don't call me that!" The blood on her lips made her snarl as ferocious as any beast. He was reminded of the wolves he'd had to kill on his father's land. (the land is his father's through marriage, so, not really his father's land)

---

Character concepts

Artemis Entreri changes character book to book and short story to short story. My take on Entreri is cobbled together from the novels _Streams of Silver_ , _The Halfling's Gem_ , The _Silent Blade_ , and _Servant of the Shard_ . I also use the short stories _The Third Level_ (which tells us Entreri ran to Calimport to escape being molested by his father and uncle), _That Curious Sword_ (where Entreri's dagger feeds him a shade), and _Empty Joys_. _Wickless in the Nethe_ (the title appropriately refers to a frog's ass) and PotWK are ignored.

To make a long story even longer; I wrote Entreri how I wish he would be written. This makes him, in all reality, out of character.

Jarlaxle's characterization is taken solely from Servant of the Shard and the two short stories I mentioned above. He's the harder one to write, because it is difficult to remember he is a conniving, scheming, ruthless bastard even when he has the capacity to be strangely kind at times.

Ashrei came out of the desire to write a strong female character who could also be sexy and viable while being a mother. I took her name from a pointless 'boys love' fantasy manga/novel called Jadou 邪道 and her image from Lineage II. Originally I played her for a very short stint on the forums at menzoberranzan dot net, where I also played Jak. I ended up realizing I had written her as the 'nice' version of Jak's mother. Her boys are quite willing to kill each other to gain her favor. (The two eldest are allied against the younger three, with Kiretheo being taken in by Inyol as a mascot of sorts.)

Casteja Vetch (he added a 'k') came from a character concept nobody would let me play way back in the day. Explaining the original concept is too long a story. His father taught him the basics of boxing; he went on to be the star boxer in his weight category at the military university he attended. They did not use gloves during matches. His field of study was military history and War theory (special emphasis on conflict origination). His country was a bit more technologically advanced than the current Forgotten Realms; they had firearms. The country was extremely debauched and decadent; think Marie Antoinette's France, but on the scale of Rome's golden age. With the war that ripped the country apart came utter chaos, epic natural disasters, and a subsequent 'dark age' where civilization took several steps back. Technology, such as the alchemical process to produce gunpowder, was lost.

Vritra was part of Casteja's original concept, but started out inside another god. It is sentient but doesn't have normal motivations or goals. It can recede into Casteja's body, but this is uncomfortable as it then takes 'root' in his flesh. After Vritra got sucked into a void, it became slightly obsessed with the first thing it came in contact with: Casteja. It has ownership feelings for him and 'enjoys' puzzling out how he works. It doesn't understand humanoid feelings or motivations.

One last item: the last scene in the epilogue was meant to be a hint that all the scenes within Vritra's fleshy prison were actually never Entreri. They were always Casteja.


End file.
